HE  VOICE  OF 
THE  CITY^ 

FURTHER  STORIES  OF 
THE  FOUR  MILLION 

BY 

O.  HEXRY 

Author   of   "The   Four   Million,"   "The   Trimmed 

Lamp,''  "Strictly  Business,"  "Whirligigs," 

"Sixes  and  Sevens"  Etc. 


PUBLISHED  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &  COMPANY 

FOB 

REVIEW  OF  REVIEWS  CO. 

1919 


Acknowledgment  is  made  to  the  New  York  World  and  to 

Ainslee's  Magazine  for  permission  to  re  publish 

these  stories 


COPYRIGHT,   I9O8,  BY 

DOUBLEDAY,   PAGE  &  COMPANY 

ALL   RIGHTS   RESERVED,    INCLUDING   THAT   OF 

TRANSLATION  INTO  FOREIGN  LANGUAGES, 

INCLUDING  THE  SCANDINAVIAN 

Copyright,   1003,  1908,  by  Ainslee  Magazine  Company 
Copyright,  1904,  1905,  1906,  by  Press  Publishing  Company 


I 


6 


CONTENTS 

•v 

PAGE 
"THE  VOICE  OF  THE  ClTY 3 

THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS     .      .      .11 

SA  LICKPENNY  LOVER 21 

'DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER ,      .      31 

""LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT"     ....      40 

,  ''THE   HARBINGER 49 

—WiiiLE  THE  AUTO  WAITS  ........      58 

''A  COMEDY  IN  RUBBER 67 

—-ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS .      .      75 

THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY     .      .      .      .     ...      .      85 

«•*•— • THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM ..95 

THE   PLUTONIAN   FIRE      ........    105 

NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN     .      .      .      .      «      .115 

X 'SQUARING  THE   ClRCLE 125 

'RosES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE  .      .      .      .      .      .      .    132 

xTiiE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 141 

'THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL     .......    149 

THE  FOOL-KILLER       .      .      .      .      .      .      .      .      „    157 

-TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA   ........    170 

• ¥HE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE     .      .      *      .      .    179 

— — THE  CLARION  CALL      .      .      .      .      .      .      ...    188 

EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA    .......   200 

A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 210 

FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  His  ABILITY     .      .      .219 
THE   MEMENTO *      ....   230 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  CITY 

TWENTY-FIVE  years  ago  the  school  children  used 
to  chant  their  lessons.  The  manner  of  their  delivery 
was  a  singsong  recitative  between  the  utterance  of  an 
Episcopal  minister  and  the  drone  of  a  tired  sawmill. 
I  mean  no  disrespect.  We  must  have  lumber  and 
sawdust. 

I  remember  one  beautiful  and  instructive  little 
lyric  that  emanated  from  the  physiology  class.  The 
most  striking  line  of  it  was  this : 

"The  shin-bone  is  the  long-est  bone  in  the  hu-man 
bod-y." 

What  an  inestimable  boon  it  would  have  been  if 
all  the  corporeal  and  spiritual  facts  pertaining  to 
man  had  thus  been  tunefully  and  logically  inculcated 
in  our  youthful  minds !  But  what  we  gained  in 
anatomy,  music  and  philosophy  was  meagre. 

The  other  da}'  I  became  confused.  I  needed  a 
ray  of  light.  I  turned  back  to  those  school  days  for 
aid.  But  in  all  the  nasal  harmonies  we  whined  forth 
from  those  hard  benches  I  could  not  recall  one  that 
treated  of  the  voice  of  agglomerated  mankind. 

In  other  words,  of  the  composite  vocal  message  of 
massed  humanity. 

3 


4  The  Voice  of  the  City 

In  other  words,  of  the  Voice  of  a  Big  City. 

Now,  the  individual  voice  is  not  lacking.  We  can 
understand  the  song  of  the  poet,  the  ripple  of  the 
brook,  the  meaning  of  the  man  who  wants  $5  until 
next  Monday,  the  inscriptions  on  the  tombs  of  the 
Pharaohs,  the  language  of  flowers,  the  "step  lively" 
of  the  conductor,  and  the  prelude  of  the  milk  cans  at 
4  A.  M.  Certain  large-eared  ones  even  assert  that 
they  are  wise  to  the  vibrations  of  the  tympanum  pro 
duced  by  concussion  of  the  air  emanating  from  Mr. 
H.  James.  But  who  can  comprehend  the  meaning 
of  the  voice  of  the  city? 

I  went  out  for  to  see. 

First,  I  asked  Aurelia.  She  wore  white  Swiss  and  a 
hat  with  flowers  on  it,  and  ribbons  and  ends  of  things 
fluttered  here  and  there. 

"Tell  me,"  I  said,  stammeringly,  for  I  have  no 
voice  of  my  own,  "what  does  this  big  —  er  — 
enormous  —  er  —  whopping  city  say?  It  must  have 
a  voice  of  some  kind.  Does  it  ever  speak  to  you? 
How  do  you  interpret  its  meaning?  It  is  a  tremen 
dous  mass,  but  it  must  have  a  key." 

"Like  a  Saratoga  trunk?"  asked  Aurelia. 

"No,"  said  I.  "Please  do  not  refer  to  the  lid.  I 
have  a  fancy  that  every  city  has  a  voice.  Each  one 
has  something  to  say  to  the  one  who  can  hear  it. 
What  docs  the  big  one  say  to  you?" 

"All    cities,"    said   Aurelia,   judicially,    "say    the 


The  Voice  of  the  City  5 

same  thing.  When  they  get  through  saying  it 
there  is  an  echo  from  Philadelphia.  So,  they  are 
unanimous." 

"Here  are  4,000,000  people,"  said  I,  scholastic- 
ally,  "compressed  upon  an  island,  which  is  mostly 
lamb  surrounded  by  Wall  Street  water.  The  con 
junction  of  so  many  units  into  so  small  a  space  must 
result  in  an  identity  —  or,  or  rather  a  homogeneity 
—  that  finds  its  oral  expression  through  a  common 
channel.  It  is,  as  you  might  say,  a  consensus  of 
translation,  concentrating  in  a  crystallized,  general 
idea  which  reveals  itself  in  what  may  be  termed  the 
Voice  of  the  City.  Can  you  tell  me  what  it  is?" 

Aurelia  smiled  wonderfully.  She  sat  on  the  high 
stoop.  A  spray  of  insolent  ivy  bobbed  against  her 
right  ear.  A  ray  of  impudent  moonlight  flickered 
upon  her  nose.  But  I  was  adamant,  nickel- 
plated. 

"I  must  go  and  find  out,"  I  said,  "what  is  the 
Voice  of  this  City.  Other  cities  have  voices.  It  is 
an  assignment.  I  must  have  it.  New  York,"  I  con 
tinued,  in  a  rising  tone,  "had  better  not  hand  me  a 
cigar  and  say:  'Old  man,  I  can't  talk  for  publication.* 
No  other  city  acts  in  that  way.  Chicago  says,  un 
hesitatingly,  "I  will;'  Philadelphia  says,  'I  should;' 
New  Orleans  says,  'I  used  to;'  Louisville  says, 
'Don't  care  if  I  do;'  St.  Louis  says,  'Excuse  me;' 
Pittsburg  says,  'Smoke  up,'  Now,  New  York " 


6  The  Voice  of  the  City  . 

Aurelia  smiled. 

"Very  well,"  said  I,  "I  must  go  elsewhere  and  find 
out." 

I  went  into  a  palace,  tile-floored,  cherub-ceilinged 
and  square  with  the  cop.  I  put  my  foot  on  the  brass 
rail  and  said  to  Billy  Magnus,  the  best  bartender  in 
the  diocese : 

"Billy,  you've  lived  in  New  York  a  long  time  — 
what  kind  of  a  song-and-dance  does  this  old  town  give 
you?  What  I  mean  is,  doesn't  the  gab  of  it  seem  to 
kind  of  bunch  up  and  slide  over  the  bar  to  you  in  a 
sort  of  amalgamated  tip  that  hits  off'  the  burg  in  a 
kind  of  an  epigram  with  a  dasli  of  bitters  and  a  slice 
of " 

•'Excuse  me  a  minute,"  said  Billy,  "somebody's 
punching  the  button  at  the  side  door." 

He  went  away ;  came  back  with  an  empty  tin 
bucket;  again  vanished  with  it  full;  returned  and 
said  to  me: 

"That  was  Maine.  She  rings  twice.  She  likes  a 
glass  of  beer  for  supper.  Her  and  the  kid.  If  you 
ever  saw  that  little  skeesicks  of  mine  brace  up  in  his 

high  chair  and  take  his  beer  and But,  say,  what 

was  yours?  I  get  kind  of  excited  when  I  hear  them 
two  rings  —  was  it  the  baseball  score  or  gin  fizz  you 
asked  for?" 

"Ginger  ale,"  I  answered. 

I  walked  up  to  Broadway.     I  saw  a  cop  on  the  cor- 


The  Voice  of  the  City  7 

nor.  The  cops  take  kids  up,  women  across,  and  men 
in.  I  went  up  to  him. 

"If  I'm  not  exceeding  the  spiel  limit,"  I  said,  "let 
me  ask  you.  You  see  New  York  during  its  vocative 
hours.  It  is  the  function  of  you  and  your  brother 
cops  to  preserve  the  acoustics  of  the  city.  There 
must  be  a  civic  voice  that  is  intelligible  to  you.  At 
night  during  your  lonely  rounds  you  must  have  heard 
it.  What  is  the  epitome  of  its  turmoil  and  shouting? 
What  does  the  city  say  to  you?" 

"Friend,"  said  the  policeman,  spinning  his  club, 
"it  don't  say  nothing.  I  get  my  orders  from  the 
man  higher  up.  Say,  I  guess  you're  all  right. 
Stand  here  for  a  few  minutes  and  keep  an  eye  open 
for  the  roundsman." 

The  cop  melted  into  the  darkness  of  the  side  street. 
In  ten  minutes  he  had  returned. 

"Married  last  Tuesday,"  he  said,  half  gruffly. 
"You  know  how  they  are.  She  comes  to  that  corner 
at  nine  every  night  for  a  —  comes  to  say  'hello !'  I 
generally  manage  to  be  there.  Say,  what  was  it  you 
asked  me  a  bit  ago  —  what's  doing  in  the  city  ?  Oh, 
there's  a  roof-garden  or  two  just  opened,  twelve 
blocks  up." 

I  crossed  a  crow's-foot  of  street-car  tracks,  and 
skirted  the  edge  of  an  unbrageous  park.  An 
artificial  Diana,  gilded,  heroic,  poised,  wind-ruled, 
on  the  tower,  shimmered  in  the  clear  light  of  her 


8  The  Voice  of  the  City 

namesake  in  the  sky.  Along  came  my  poet,  hurry 
ing,  hatted,  haired,  emitting  dactyls,  spondees  arid 
dactylis.  I  seized  him. 

"Bill,"  said  I  (in  the  magazine  he  is  Cleon),  "give 
me  a  lift.  I  am  on  an  assignment  to  find  out  the 
Voice  of  the  city.  You  see,  it's  a  special  order.  Or- 
dinarily  a  symposium  comprising  the  views  of  Henry 
Clews,  John  L.  Sullivan,  Edwin  Markham,  May  Ir- 
win  and  Charles  Schwab  would  be  about  all.  But  this  . 
is  a  different  matter.  We  want  a  broad,  poetic, 
mystic  vocalization  of  the  city's  soul  and  meaning. 
You  are  the  very  chap  to  give  me  a  hint.  Some  years 
ago  a  man  got  at  the  Niagara  Falls  and  gave  us  its 
pitch.  The  note  was  about  two  feet  below  the  lowest 
G  on  the  piano.  Now,  you  can't  put  New  York  into 
a  note  unless  it's  better  indorsed  than  that.  But  give 
me  an  idea  of  what  it  would  say  if  it  should  speak.  It 
is  bound  to  be  a  mighty  and  far-reaching  utterance. 
To  arrive  at  it  we  must  take  the  tremendous  crash  of 
the  chords  of  the  day's  traffic,  the  laughter  and  music 
of  the  night,  the  solemn  tones  of  Dr.  Parkhurst,  the 
rag-time,  the  weeping,  the  stealthy  hum  of  cab-wheels, 
the  shout  of  the  press  agent,  the  tinkle  of  fountains 
on  the  roof  gardens,  the  hullabaloo  of  the  strawberry 
vender  and  the  covers  of  Everybody's  Magazine,  the 
whispers  of  the  lovers  in  the  parks  —  all  these  sounds 
must  go  into  your  Voice  —  not  combined,  but  mixed, 
and  of  the  mixture  an  essence  made ;  and  of  the  es- 


The  Voice  of  the  City  9 

sencc  an  extract  —  an  audible  extract,  of  which  one 
drop  shall  form  the  thing  we  seek." 

"Do  you  remember,"  asked  the  poet,  with  a 
chuckle,  "that  California  girl  we  met  at  Stivers 
studio  last  week?  Well,  I'm  on  my  way  to  see  her. 
She  repeated  that  poem  of  mine,  'The  Tribute  of 
Spring,'  word  for  word.  She's  the  smartest  proposi 
tion  in  this  town  just  at  present.  Say,  how  does  this 
confounded  tie  look?  I  spoiled  four  before  I  got  one 
to  set  right." 

"And  the  Voice  that  I  asked  you  about?"  I  in 
quired. 

"Oh,  she  doesn't  sing,"  said  Cleon.  "But  you 
ought  to  hear  her  recite  my  'Angel  of  the  Inshore 
Wind.'  " 

I  passed  on.  I  cornered  a  newsboy  and  he  Hashed 
at  me  prophetic  pink  papers  that  outstripped  the 
news  by  two  revolutions  of  the  clock's  longest  hand, 

"Son,"  I  said,  while  I  pretended  to  chase  coins  in 
my  penny  pocket,  "doesn't  it  sometimes  seem  to  you 
as  if  the  city  ought  to  be  able  to  talk?  All  the  ,e  ups 
and  downs  and  funny  business  and  queer  things  hap 
pening  every  day  —  what  would  it  say,  do  3;ou  think, 
if  it  could  speak?" 

"Quit  yer  kiddin',"  said  the  boy.  "Wot  paper  yer 
want?  I  got  no  time  to  waste.  It's  Mag's  birthday, 
and  I  want  thirty  cents  to  git  her  a  present." 

Here  was  no  interpreter  of  the  city's  mouthpiece. 


10  The  Voice  of  the  City 

I  bought  a  paper,  and  consigned  its  undeclared 
treaties,  its  premeditated  murders  and  unfought  bat 
tles  to  an  ash  can. 

Again  I  repaired  to  the  park  and  sat  in  the  moon 
shade.  I  thought  and  thought,  and  wondered  why 
none  could  tell  me  what  I  asked  for. 

And  then,  as  swift  as  light  from  a  fixed  star,  the 
answer  came  to  me.  I  arose  and  hurried  —  hurried 
as  so  many  reasoners  must,  back  around  my  circle. 
I  knew  the  answer  and  I  hugged  it  in  my  breast  as  I 
flew,  fearing  lest  some  one  would  stop  me  and  demand 
my  secret. 

Aureiia  was  still  on  the  stoop.  The  moon  was 
higher  and  the  ivy  shadows  were  deeper.  I  sat  at  her 
side  and  we  watched  a  little  cloud  tilt  at  the  drifting 
moon  and  go  asunder  quite  pale  and  discomfited. 

And  then,  wonder  of  wonders  and  delight  of  de 
lights  !  our  hands  somehow  touched,  and  our  fingers 
closed  together  and  did  not  part. 

After  half  an  hour  Aureiia  said,  with  that  smile 
of  hers : 

"Do  you  know,  you  haven't  spoken  a  word  since 
you  came  back !" 

"That,"  said  I,  nodding  wisely,  "is  the  Voice  of 
the  City." 


THE  COMPLETE  LIFE  OF  JOHN  HOPKINS 

1  HERE  is  a  saying  that  no  man  has  tasted  the  full 
flavour  of  life  until  he  has  known  poverty,  love  and 
wars  The  justness  of  this  reflection  commends  it  to 
the  lover  of  condensed  philosophy.  The  three  condi 
tions  embrace  about  all  there  is  in  life  worth  knowing. 
A  surface  thinker  might  deem  that  wealth  should  be 
added  to  the  list.  Not  so.  When  a  poor  man  finds  a 
long-hidden  quarter-dollar  that  has  slipped  through 
a  rip  into  his  vest  lining,  he  sounds  the  pleasure  of 
life  with  a  deeper  plummet  than  any  millionaire  can 
hope  to  cast. 

It  seems  that  the  wise  executive  power  that  rules 
life  has  thought  best  to  drill  man  in  these  three  con 
ditions  ;  and  none  may  escape  all  three.  In  rural 
places  the  terms  do  not  mean  so  much.  Poverty  is 
less  pinching;  love  is  temperate;  war  shrinks  to  con 
tests  about  boundary  lines  and  the  neighbors'  hens. 
It  is  in  the  cities  that  our  epigram  gains  in  truth  and 
vigor;  and  it  has  remained  for  one  John  Hopkins  to 
crowd  the  experience  into  a  rather  small  space  of 
time. 

The   Hopkins   flat   was   like   a    thousand   others. 

There  was   a  rubber  plant  in  one  window;   a  flea- 

11 


12  The  Voice  of  the  City 

bitten  terrier  sat  in  the  other,  wondering  when  he 
was  to  have  his  day. 

John  Hopkins  was  like  a  thousand  others.  He 
worked  at  $20  per  week  in  a  nine-story,  red-brick 
building  at  either  Insurance,  Buckle's  Hoisting  En 
gines,  Chiropody,  Loans,  Pullej's,  Boas  Renovated, 
Waltz  Guaranteed  in  Five  Lessons,  or  Artificial 
Limbs.  It  is  not  for  us  to  wring  Mr.  Hopkins's  avo 
cation  from  these  outward  signs  that  be. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  like  a  thousand  others.  The 
auriferous  tooth,  the  sedentary  disposition,  the  Sun 
day  afternoon  wanderlust,  the  draught  upon  the 
delicatessen  store  for  home-made  comforts,  the 
furor  for  department  store  marked-down  sales,  the 
feeling  of  superiority  to  the  lady  in  the  third-floor 
front  who  wore  genuine  ostrich  tips  and  had  two 
names  over  her  bell,  the  mucilaginous  hours  during 
which  she  remained  glued  to  the  window  sill,  the  vigi 
lant  avoidance  of  the  instalment  man,  the  tireless 
patronage  of  the  acoustics  of  the  dumb-waiter  shaft 
—  all  the  attributes  of  the  Gotham  flat-dweller  were 
hers. 

One  moment  yet  of  sententiousness  and  the  story 
moves. 

In  the  Big  City  large  and  sudden  things  happen. 
You  round  a  corner  and  thrust  the  rib  of  your  um 
brella  into  the  eye  of  your  old  friend  from  Kootenai 
Falls,  You  stroll  out  to  pluck  a  Sweet  William  in  the 


The  Complete  Life  of  John  Hopkins    13 

park  —  and  lo  !  bandits  attack  you  —  you  are  am- 
bulanced  to  the  hospital  —  you  marry  your  nurse ; 
are  divorced  —  get  squeezed  while  short  on  U.  P.  S. 
and  D.  O.  W.  N.  S. —  stand  in  the  bread  line  —  marry 
an  heiress,  take  out  your  laundry  and  pay  your  club 
dues  —  seemingly  all  in  the  wink  of  an  eye.  You 
travel  the  streets,  and  a  finger  beckons  to  you,  a 
handkerchief  is  dropped  for  you,  a  brick  is  dropped 
upon  you,  the  elevator  cable  or  your  bank  breaks,  a 
table  d'hote  or  your  wife  disagrees  with  you,  and  Fate 
tosses  you  about  like  cork  crumbs  in  wine  opened  by 
an  un-feed  waiter.  The  City  is  a  sprightly  young 
ster,  and  you  are  red  paint  upon  its  toy,  and  you  get 
licked  off. 

John  Hopkins  sat,  after  a  compressed  dinner,  in 
his  glove-fitting  straight-front  flat.  He  sat  upon  a 
hornblende  couch  and  gazed,  with  satiated  eyes,  at 
Art  Brought  Home  to  the  People  in  the  shape  of 
"The  Storm"  tacked  against  the  wall.  Mrs.  Hop 
kins  discoursed  droningly  of  the  dinner  smells  from 
the  flat  across  the  hall.  The  flea-bitten  terrier  gave 
Hopkins  a  look  of  disgust  and  showed  a  man-hating 
tooth. 

Here  was  neither  poverty,  love,  nor  war ;  but  upon 
such  barren  sterns  may  be  grafted  those  essentials  of 
a  complete  life. 

John  Hopkins  sought  to  inject  a  few  raisins  of 
conversation  into  the  tasteless  dough  of  existence. 


U  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"Putting  a  new  elevator  in  at  the  office,"  he  said, 
discarding  the  nominative  noun,  "and  the  boss  has 
turned  out  his  whiskers." 

"You  don't  mean  it!"  commented  Mrs.  Hopkins. 

"Mr.  Whipples,"  continued  John,  "wore  his  new 
spring  suit  down  to-day.  I  liked  it  fine.  It's  a  gray 

with He  stopped,  suddenly  stricken  by  a  need 

that  made  itself  known  to  him.  "I  believe  I'll  walk 
down  to  the  corner  and  get  a  five-cent  cigar,"  he 
concluded. 

John  Hopkins  took  his  hat  and  picked  his  way 
down  the  musty  halls  and  stairs  oi'  the  flat-house. 

The  evening  air  was  mild,  and  the  streets  shrill 
with  the  careless  cries  of  children  playing  games  con 
trolled  by  mysterious  rhythms  and  phrases.  Their 
elders  held  the  doorways  and  steps  with  leisurely  pipe 
and  gossip.  Paradoxically,  the  fire-escapes  sup 
ported  lovers  in  couples  who  made  no  attempt  to  fly 
the  mounting  conflagration  they  were  there  to  fan. 

The  corner  cigar  store  aimed  at  by  John  Hopkins 
was  kept  by  a  man  named  Freshmayer,  who  looked 
upon  the  earth  as  a  sterile  promontory. 

Hopkins,  unknown  in  the  store,  entered  and  called 
genially  for  his  "bunch  of  spinach,  car-fare  grade." 
This  imputation  deepened  the  pessimism  of  Fresh 
mayer  ;  but  he  set  out  a  brand  that  came  perilously 
near  to  filling  the  order.  Hopkins  bit  off  the  roots  of 
his  purchase,  and  lighted  up  at  the  swinging  gas 


The  Complete  Life  of  John  Hopkins     15 

jet.  Feeling  in  his  pockets  to  make  payment,  he 
found  not  a  penny  there. 

"Say,  my  friend,"  he  explained,  frankly,  "I've  come 
out  without  any  change.  Hand  you  that  nickel  first 
time  I  pass," 

Joy  surged  in  Freshmayer's  heart.  Here  was  cor- 
roboration  of  his  belief  that  the  world  was  rotten  and 
man  a  peripatetic  evil.  Without  a  word  he  rounded 
the  end  of  his  counter  and  made  earnest  onslaught 
upon  his  customer.  Hopkins  was  no  man  to  serve  as 
a  punching-bag  for  a  pessimistic  tobacconist.  He 
quickly  bestowed  upon  Freshmayer  a  colorado- 
maduro  eye  in  return  for  the  ardent  kick  that  he 
received  from  that  dealer  in  goods  for  cash  only. 

The  impetus  of  the  enemy's  attack  forced  the 
Hopkins  line  back  to  the  sidewalk.  There  the  con 
flict  raged ;  the  pacific  wooden  Indian,  with  his  carven 
smile,  was  overturned,  and  those  of  the  street  who 
delighted  in  carnage  pressed  round  to  view  the  zealous 
joust. 

But  then  came  the  inevitable  cop  and  imminent  in 
convenience  for  both  the  attacker  and  attacked. 
John  Hopkins  was  a  peaceful  citizen,  who  worked  at 
rebuses  of  nights  in  a  flat,  but  he  was  not  without  the 
fundamental  spirit  of  resistance  that  comes  with  the 
battle-rage.  He  knocked  the  policeman  into  a  gro 
cer's  sidewalk  display  of  goods  and  gave  Freshmayer 
a  punch  that  caused  him  temporarily  to  regret  that 


16  The  Voice  of  the  City 

he  had  not  made  it  a  rule  to  extend  a  five-cent  line 
of  credit  to  certain  customers.  Then  Hopkins  took 
spiritedly  to  his  heels  down  the  sidewalk,  closely  fol 
lowed  by  the  cigar-dealer  and  the  policeman,  whose 
uniform  testified  to  the  reason  in  the  grocer's  sign 
that  read :  "Eggs  cheaper  than  anywhere  else  in  the 
city." 

As  Hopkins  ran  he  became  aware  of  a  big,  low, 
red,  racing  automobile  that  kept  abreast  of  him  in 
the  street.  This  auto  steered  in  to  the  side  of  the 
sidewalk,  and  the  man  guiding  it  motioned  to  Hopkins 
to  jump  into  it.  He  did  so  without  slackening  his 
speed,  and  fell  into  the  turkey-red  upholstered  seat 
beside  the  chauffeur.  The  big  machine,  with  a  dimin 
uendo  cough,  flew  away  like  an  albatross  down  the 
avenue  into  which  the  street  emptied. 

The  driver  of  the  auto  sped  his  machine  without  a 
word.  He  was  masked  beyond  guess  in  the  goggles 
and  diabolic  garb  of  the  chauffeur. 

"Much  obliged,  old  man,"  called  Hopkins,  grate 
fully.  "I  guess  you've  got  sporting  blood  in  you, 
all  right,  and  don't  admire  the  sight  of  two  men 
trying  to  soak  one.  Little  more  and  I'd  have  been 
pinched." 

The  chauffeur  made  no  sign  that  he  had  heard. 
Hopkins  shrugged  a  shoulder  and  chewed  at  his  cigar, 
to  which  his  teeth  had  clung  grimly  throughout  the 
melee. 


The  Complete  Life  of  John  Hopkins    17 

Ten  minutes  and  the  auto  turned  into  the  open 
carriage  entrance  of  a  noble  mansion  of  brown  stone, 
and  stood  still.  The  chauffeur  leaped  out,  and  said : 

"Come  quick.  The  lady,  she  will  explain.  It  is 
the  great  honor  you  will  have,  monsieur.  Ah,  that 
milady  could  call  upon  Armand  to  do  this  thing! 
But,  no,  I  am  only  one  chauffeur." 

With  vehement  gestures  the  chauffeur  conducted 
Hopkins  into  the  house.  He  was  ushered  into  a  small 
but  luxurious  reception  chamber.  A  lady,  young, 
and  possessing  the  beauty  of  visions,  rose  from  a 
chair.  In  her  eyes  smouldered  a  becoming  anger. 
Her  high-arched,  thread-like  brows  were  ruffled  into 
a  delicious  frown. 

"Milady,"  said  the  chauffeur,  bowing  low,  "I  have 
the  honor  to  relate  to  you  that  I  went  to  the  house  of 
Monsieur  Long  and  found  him  to  be  not  at  home.  As 
I  came  back  I  see  this  gentleman  in  combat  against  — 
how  you  say  —  greatest  odds.  He  is  fighting  with 
five  —  ten  —  thirty  men  —  gendarmes,  aussi.  Yes, 
milady,  he  what  you  call  'swat'  one  —  three  —  eight 
policemans.  If  that  Monsieur  Long  is  out  I  say  to 
myself  this  gentleman  he  will  serve  milady  so  well,  and 
I  bring  him  here." 

"Very  well,  Armand,"  said  the  lady,  "you  may  go." 
She  turned  to  Hopkins. 

"I  sent  my  chauffeur,"  she  said,  "to  bring  my 
cousin,  Walter  Long.  There  is  a  man  in  this  house 


18  The  Voice  of  the  City 

who  has  treated  me  with  insult  and  abuse.  I  have 
complained  to  my  aunt,  and  she  laughs  at  me.  Ar- 
mand  says  you  are  brave.  In  these  prosaic  days  men 
who  are  both  brave  and  chivalrous  are  few.  May  I 
count  upon  your  assistance?" 

John  Hopkins  thrust  the  remains  of  his  cigar  into 
his  coat  pocket.  He  looked  upon  this  winning  crea 
ture  and  felt  his  first  thrill  of  romance.  It  was  a 
knightly  love,  and  contained  no  disloyalty  to  the  flat 
with  the  flea-bitten  terrier  and  the  lady  of  his  choice. 
He  had  married  her  after  a  picnic  of  the  Lady  Label 
Stickers'  Union,  Lodge  No.  2,  on  a  dare  and  a  bet  of 
new  hats  and  chowder  all  around  with  his  friend,  Billy 
McManus.  This  angel  who  was  begging  him  to  come 
to  her  rescue  was  something  too  heavenly  for  chow 
der,  and  as  for  hats  —  golden,  jewelled  crowns  for 
her! 

"Say,"  said  John  Hopkins,  "just  show  me  the  guy 
that  you've  got  the  grouch  at.  I've  neglected  my 
talents  as  a  scrapper  heretofore,  but  this  is  my  busy 
night." 

"He  is  in  there,"  said  the  lady,  pointing  to  a  closed 
door.  "Come.  Are  you  sure  that  you  do  not  falter 
or  fear?" 

"Me?"  said  John  Hopkins.  "Just  give  me  one  of 
those  roses  in  the  bunch  you  are  wearing,  will  you?" 

The  lady  gave  him  a  red,  red  rose.  John  Hopkins 
kissed  it,  stuffed  it  into  his  vest  pocket,  opened  the 


The  Complete  Life  of  John  Hopkins     19 

door  and  walked  into  the  room.  It  was  a  handsome 
library,  softly  but  brightly  lighted.  A  young  man 
was  there,  reading. 

"Books  on  etiquette  is  what  you  want  to  study," 
said  John  Hopkins,  abruptly.  "Get  up  here,  and  I'll 
give  you  some  lessons.  Be  rude  to  a  lady,  will  you?" 

The  young  man  looked  mildly  surprised.  Then  he 
arose  Janguidh',  dcxtrously  caught  the  arms  of  John 
Hopkins  and  conducted  him  irresistibly  to  the  front 
door  of  the  house. 

"Beware,  Ralph  Branscombc,"  cried  the  lady,  who 
had  followed,  "what  you  do  to  the  gallant  man  who 
has  tried  to  protect  me." 

The  young  man  shoved  John  Hopkins  gently  out 
the  door  and  then  closed  it. 

"Bess,"  he  said  calmly,  "I  wish  you  would  quit 
reading  historical  novels.  How  in  the  world  did  that 
fellow  get  in  here?" 

"Armand  brought  him,"  said  the  young  lady.  "I 
think  you  are  awfully  mean  not  to  let  me  have  that 
St.  Bernard.  I  sent  Armand  for  Walter.  I  was  so 
angry  with  you." 

"Be  sensible,  Bess,"  said  the  young  man,  taking 
her  arm.  "That  dog  isn't  safe.  He  has  bitten  two 
or  three  people  around  the  kennels.  Come  now,  let's 
go  tell  auntie  we  are  in  good  humor  again." 

Arm  in  arm,  they  moved  away. 

John  Hopkins  walked  to  his  flat.     The  janitor's 


20  The  Voice  of  the  City 

five-year-old  daughter  was  playing  on  the  steps. 
Hopkins  gave  her  a  nice,  red  rose  and  walked  up 
stairs. 

Mrs.  Hopkins  was  philandering  with  curl-papers. 

"Get  your  cigar?"  she  asked,  disinterestedly. 

"Sure,"  said  Hopkins,  "and  I  knocked  around  a 
while  outside.  It's  a  nice  night." 

He  sat  upon  the  hornblende  sofa,  took  out  the 
stump  of  his  cigar,  lighted  it,  and  gazed  at  the  grace 
ful  figures  in  "The  Storm"  on  the  opposite  wall. 

"I  was  telling  you,"  said  he,  "about  Mr.  Whipple's 
suit.  It's  a  gray,  with  an  invisible  check,  and  it  looks 
fine." 


A  LICKPENNY  LOVER 

THERE  were  3,000  girls  in  the  Biggest  Store. 
Masie  was  one  of  them.  She  was  eighteen  and  a 
saleslady  in  the  gents'  gloves.  Here  she  became 
versed  in  two  varieties  of  human  beings  —  the  kind  of 
gents  who  buy  their  gloves  in  department  stores  and 
the  kind  of  women  who  buy  gloves  for  unfortunate 
gents.  Besides  this  wide  knowledge  of  the  human 
species,  Masie  had  acquired  other  information.  She 
had  listened  to  the  promulgated  wisdom  of  the  2,999 
other  girls  and  had  stored  it  in  a  brain  that  was  as 
secretive  and  wary  as  that  of  a  Maltese  cat.  Per 
haps  nature,  foreseeing  that  she  would  lack  wise 
counsellors,  had  mingled  the  saving  ingredient  of 
shrewdness  along  with  her  beauty,  as  she  has  en 
dowed  the  silver  fox  of  the  priceless  fur  above  the 
other  animals  with  cunning. 

For  Masie  was  beautiful.  She  was  a  deep-tinted 
blonde,  with  the  calm  poise  of  a  lady  who  cooks  butter 
cakes  in  a  window.  She  stood  behind  her  counter  in 
the  Biggest  Store ;  and  as  you  closed  your  hand  over 
the  tape-line  for  your  glove  measure  you  thought  of 
Hebe ;  and  as  you  looked  again  you  wondered  how  she 

had  come  by  Minerva's  eyes. 

21 


22  The  Voice  of  the  City 

When  the  floorwalker  was  not  looking  Mask1  chewed 
tutti  frutti ;  when  he  was  looking  she  gazed  up  as  if  at 
the  clouds  and  smiled  wistfully. 

That  is  the  shopgirl  smile,  and  I  enjoin  you  to 
shun  it  unless  you  are  well  fortified  with  callosity  of 
the  heart,  caramels  and  a  congeniality  for  the  capers 
of  Cupid.  This  smile  belonged  to  Masie's  recreation 
hours  and  not  to  the  store;  but  the  floorwalker  must 
have  his  own.  He  is  the  Shylock  ^  of  the  stores. 
When  he  comes  nosing  around  the  bridge  of  Ins  nose 
is  a  toll-bridge.  It  is  goo-goo  eyes  or  "git"  when  he 
looks  toward  a  pretty  girl.  Of  course  not  all  floor 
walkers  are  thus.  Only  a  few  days  ago  the  papers 
printed  news  of  one  over  eighty  years  of  age. 

One  day  Irving  Carter,  painter,  millionaire,  trav 
eller,  poet,  automobilist,  happened  to  enter  the  Big 
gest  Store.  It  is  due  to  him  to  add  that  his  visit  was 
not  voluntary.  Filial  duty  took  him  by  the  collar 
and  dragged  him  inside,  while  his  mother  philandered 
among  the  bronze  and  terra-cotta  statuettes. 

Carter  strolled  across  to  the  glove  counter  in  order 
to  shoot  a  few  minutes  on  the  wing.  His  need  for 
gloves  was  genuine;  he  had  forgotten  to  bring  a  pair 
with  him.  But  his  action  hardly  calls  for  apology,  be 
cause  he  had  never  heard  of  glove-counter  flirtations. 

As  he  nearecl  the  vicinity  of  his  fate  he  hesitated, 
suddenly  conscious  of  this  unknown  phase  of  Cupid's 
less  worthy  profession. 


A  Lickpenny  Lover  23 

Three  or  four  cheap  fellows,  sonorously  garbed, 
were  leaning  over  the  counters,  wrestling  with  the 
mediatorial  hand-coverings,  while  giggling  girls 
played  vivacious  seconds  to  their  lead  upon  the 
strident  string  of  coquetry.  Carter  would  have  re 
treated,  but  he  had  gone  too  far.  Masie  confronted 
him  behind  her  counter  with  a  questioning  look  in 
eyes  as  coldly,  beautifully,  warmly  blue  as  the  glint 
of  summer  sunshine  on  an  iceberg  drifting  in  Southern 
seas. 

And  then  Irving  Carter,  painter,  millionaire,  etc., 
felt  a  warm  Hush  rise  to  his  aristocratically  pale  face. 
But  not  from  diffidence.  The  blush  was  intellectual 
in  origin.  He  knew  in  a  moment  that  he  stood  in  the 
ranks  of  the  ready-made  youths  who  wooed  the  gig 
gling  girls  at  other  counters.  Himself  leaned  against 
the  oaken  trysting  place  of  a  cockney  Cupid  with  a 
desire  in  his  heart  for  the  favor  of  a  glove  salesgirl. 
He  was  no  more  than  Bill  and  Jack  and  Mickey. 
And  then  he  felt  a  sudden  tolerance  for  them,  and  an 
elating,  courageous  contempt  for  the  conventions 
upon  which  he  had  fed,  and  an  unhesitating  determina 
tion  to  have  this  perfect  creature  for  his  own. 

When  the  gloves  were  paid  for  and  wrapped 
Carter  lingered  for  a  moment.  The  dimples  at  the 
corners  of  Masic's  damask  mouth  deepened.  All  gen 
tlemen  who  bought  gloves  lingered  in  just  that  way. 
She  curved  an  arm,  showing  like  Psyche's  through 


24  The  Voice  of  the  City 

her  shirt-waist  sleeve,  and  rested  an  elbow  upon  the 
show-case  edge. 

Carter  had  never  before  encountered  a  situation  of 
which  he  had  not  been  perfect  master.  But  now  he 
stood  far  more  awkward  than  Bill  or  Jack  or  Mickey. 
He  had  no  chance  of  meeting  this  beautiful  girl  so 
cially.  His  mind  struggled  to  recall  the  nature  and 
habits  of  shopgirls  as  he  had  read  or  heard  of  them. 
Somehow  he  had  received  the  idea  that  they  some 
times  did  not  insist  too  strictly  upon  the  regular 
channels  of  introduction.  His  heart  beat  loudly  at 
the  thought  of  proposing  an  unconventional  meeting 
with  this  lovely  and  virginal  being.  But  the  tumult 
in  his  heart  gave  him  courage. 

After  a  few  friendly  and  well-received  remarks  on 
general  subjects,  he  laid  his  card  by  her  hand  on  the 
counter. 

"Will  you  please  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "if  I  seem 
too  bold ;  but  I  earnestly  hope  you  will  allow  me  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  you  again.  There  is  my  name ;  I 
assure  you  that  it  is  with  the  greatest  respect  that 
I  ask  the  favor  of  becoming  one  of  your  f r  — 
acquaintances.  May  I  not  hope  for  the  privilege?" 

Masic  knew  men  —  especially  men  who  buy  gloves. 
Without  hesitation  she  looked  him  frankly  and  smil 
ingly  in  the  eyes,  and  said  : 

''Sure.  I  guess  you're  all  right.  I  don't  usually 
go  out  with  strange  gentlemen,  though.  It  ain't 


A  Lick  penny  Lover  25 

quite  ladylike.  When  should  you  want  to  see  me 
again  ??? 

"As  soon  as  I  may,"  said  Carter.  "If  you  would 
allow  me  to  call  at  your  home,  I " 

Masie  laughed  musically.  "Oh,  gee,  no  !"  she  said, 
emphatically.  "If  you  could  see  our  flat  once  1 
There's  five  of  us  in  three  rooms.  I'd  just  like  to 
see  ma's  face  if  I  was  to  bring  a  gentleman  friend 
there!" 

"Anywhere,  then,"  said  the  enamored  Carter,  "that 
will  be  convenient  to  you." 

"Say,"  suggested  Masie,  with  a  bright-idea  look  in 
her  peach-blow  face;  "I  guess  Thursday  night  will 
about  suit  me.  Suppose  you  come  to  the  corner  of 
Eighth  Avenue  and  Forty-eighth  Street  at  7:30.  I 
live  right  near  the  corner.  But  I've  got  to  be  back 
home  by  eleven.  Ma  never  lets  me  stay  out  after 
eleven." 

Carter  promised  gratefully  to  keep  the  tryst,  and 
then  hastened  to  his  mother,  who  was  looking  about 
for  him  to  ratify  her  purchase  of  a  bronze  Diana. 

A  salesgirl,  with  small  eyes  and  an  obtuse  nose, 
strolled  near  Masie,  with  a  friendly  leer. 

"Did  you  make  a  hit  with  his  nobs,  Masie?"  she 
asked,  familiarly. 

"The  gentleman  asked  permission  to  call,"  an 
swered  Masie,  with  the  grand  air,  as  she  slipped 
Carter's  card  into  the  bosom  of  her  waist. 


26  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"Permission  to  call!"  echoed  small  eyes,  with  a 
snigger.  "Did  he  say  anything  about  dinner  in  the 
Waldorf  and  a  spin  in  his  auto  afterward?" 

"Oh,  cheese  it !"  said  Masie,  wearily.  "You've  been 
used  to  swell  things,  I  don't  think.  You've  had  a 
swelled  head  ever  since  that  hose-cart  driver  took  you 
out  to  a  chop  suey  joint.  No,  he  never  mentioned 
the  Waldorf ;  but  there's  a  Fifth  Avenue  address  on 
his  card,  and  if  he  buys  the  supper  you  can  bet  your 
life  there  won't  be  no  pigtail  on  the  waiter  what  takes 
the  order." 

As  Carter  glided  away  from  the  Biggest  Store 
with  his  mother  in  his  electric  runabout^  he  bit  his  lip 
with  a  dull  pain  at  his  heart.  He  knew  that  love  had 
come  to  him  for  the  first  time  in  all  the  twenty-nine 
years  of  his  life.  And  that  the  object  of  it  should 
make  so  readily  an  appointment  with  him  at  a  street 
corner,  though  it  was  a  step  toward  his  desires,  tor^- 
tured  him  with  misgivings. 

Carter  did  not  know  the  shopgirl.  He  did  not 
know  that  her  home  is  often  either  a  scarcely  habit 
able  tiny  room  or  a  domicile  filled  to  overflowing  with 
kith  and  kin.  The  street-corner  is  her  parlor,  the 
park  is  her  drawing-room ;  the  avenue  is  her  garden 
walk ;  yet  for  the  most  part  she  is  as  inviolate  mis 
tress  of  herself  in  them  as  is  my  lady  inside  her 
tapestried  chamber. 

One  evening  at  dusk,  two  weeks  after  their  first 


A  Lickpenny  Lover  27 

meeting,  Carter  and  Masie  strolled  arm-in-arm  into  a 
little,  dimly-lit  park.  They  found  a  bench,  tree- 
shadowed  and  secluded,  and  sat  there. 

For  the  first  time  his  arm  stole  gently  around  her. 
Her  golden-bronze  head  slid  restfully  against  his 
shoulder. 

"Gee!"  sighed  Masie,  thankfully.  "Why  didn't 
you  ever  think  of  that  before?" 

"Masie,"  said  Carter,  earnestly,  "you  surely  know 
that  I  love  you.  I  ask  you  sincerely  to  marry  me. 
You  know  me  well  enough  by  this  time  to  have  no 
doubts  of  me.  I  want  you,  and  I  must  have  you.  I 
oare  nothing  for  the  difference  in  our  stations.'* 

"What  is  the  difference?"  asked  Masie,  curi 
ously. 

"Well,  there  isn't  any,"  said  Carter,  quickly,  "ex 
cept  in  the  minds  of  foolish  people.  It  is  in  my  power 
to  give  you  a  life  of  luxury.  My  social  position  is 
beyond  dispute,  and  my  means  are  ample." 

"They  all  say  that,"  remarked  Masie.  "It's  the 
kid  they  all  give  you.  I  suppose  you  really  work  in 
a  delicatessen  or  follow  the  races.  I  ain't  as  green  as 
I  look." 

"I  can  furnish  you  all  the  proofs  you  want,"  said 
Carter,  gently.  "And  I  want  you,  Masie.  I  loved 
you  the  first  day  I  saw  you." 

"They  all  do,"  said  Masie,  with  an  amused  laugh, 
"to  hear  'em  talk.  If  I  could  meet  a  man  that  got 


28  The  Voice  of  the  City 

stuck  on  me  the  third  time  he'd  seen  me  I  think  I'd 
get  mashed  on  him." 

"Please  don't  say  such  things,"  pleaded  Carter. 
"Listen  to  me,  dear.  Ever  since  I  first  looked  into 
your  eyes  you  have  been  the  only  woman  in  the  world 
for  me." 

"Oh,  ain't  you  the  kidder !"  smiled  Masie.  "How 
many  other  girls  did  you  ever  tell  that?" 

But  Carter  persisted.  And  at  length  he  reached 
the  flimsy,  fluttering  little  soul  of  the  shopgirl  that 
existed  somewhere  deep  down  in  her  lovely  bosom. 
His  words  penetrated  the  heart  whose  very  lightness 
was  its  safest  armor.  She  looked  up  at  him  with  eyes 
that  saw.  And  a  warm  glow  visited  her  cool  cheeks. 
Tremblingly,  awfully,  her  moth  wings  closed,  and  she 
seemed  about  to  settle  upon  the  flower  of  love.  Some 
faint  glimmer  of  life  and  its  possibilities  on  the  other 
side  of  her  glove  counter  dawned  upon  her.  Carter 
felt  the  change  and  crowded  the  opportunit3\ 

"Marry  me,  Masie,"  he  whispered  softly,  "and  we 
will  go  away  from  this  ugly  city  to  beautiful  ones. 
We  will  forget  work  and  business,  and  life  will  be  one 
long  holiday.  I  know  where  I  should  take  you  —  I 
have  been  there  often.  Just  think  of  a  shore  where 
summer  is  eternal,  where  the  waves  are  always  rip 
pling  on  the  lovely  beach  and  the  people  are  happv 
and  free  as  children.  We  will  sail  to  those  shores  and 
remain  there  as  long  as  you  please.  In  one  of  those 


A  Lick  penny  Lover  29 

far-away  cities  there  are  grand  and  lovely  palaces 
and  towers  full  of  beautiful  pictures  and  statues. 
The  streets  of  the  city  are  water,  and  one  travels 
about  in " 

"I  know,"  said  Masie,  sitting  up  suddenly.  "Gon 
dolas." 

"Yes,"  smiled  Carter. 

"I  thought  so,"  said  Masie. 

"And  then,"  continued  Carter,  "we  will  travel  on 
and  see  whatever  we  wish  in  the  world.  After  the 
European  cities  we  will  visit  India  and  the  ancient 
cities  there,  and  ride  on  elephants  and  see  the  wonder 
ful  temples  of  the  Hindoos  and  Brahmins  and  the  Jap 
anese  gardens  and  the  camel  trains  and  chariot  races 
in  Persia,  and  ah1  the  queer  sights  of  foreign  coun 
tries.  Don't  you  think  you  would  like  it,  Maisie?" 

Maisie  rose  to  her  feet. 

"I  think  we  had  better  be  going  home,"  she  said, 
coolly.  "It's  getting  late." 

Carter  humored  her.  He  had  come  to  know  her 
varying,  thistle-down  moods,  and  that  it  was  useless 
to  combat  them.  But  he  felt  a  certain  happy  tri 
umph.  He  had  held  for  a  moment,  though  but  by  a 
silken  thread,  the  soul  of  his  wild  Psyche,  and  hope 
was  stronger  within  him.  Once  she  had  folded  her 
wings  and  her  cool  hand  had  closed  about  his  own. 

At  the  Biggest  Store  the  next  day  Maisie's  chum, 
Lulu,  waylaid  her  in  an  angle  of  the  counter. 


30  The  Vdce  of  the  City 

"How  are  you  and  your  swell  friend  making  it?" 
she  asked. 

"Oh,  him?"  said  Masie,  patting  her  side  curls. 
"He  ain't  in  it  any  more.  Say,  Lu,  what  do  you 
think  that  fellow  wanted  me  to  do  ?" 

"Go  on  the  stage?"  guessed  Lulu,  breathlessly. 

"Nit ;  he's  too  cheap  a  guy  for  that.  He  wanted 
me  to  marry  him  and  go  down  to  Coney  Island  for  a 
wedding  tour !" 


DOUGHERTY'S  EYE-OPENER 

JIM  DOUGHERTY  was  a  sport,  He  be 
longed  to  that  race  of  men.  In  Manhattan  it  is  a 
distinct  race.  They  are  the  Caribs  of  the  North  — 
strong,  artful,  self-sufficient,  clannish,  honorable 
within  the  laws  of  their  race,  holding  in  lenient  con 
tempt  neighboring  tribes  who  bow  to  the  measure  of 
Society's  tapeline.  I  refer,  of  course,  to  the  titled 
nobility  of  sportdom.  There  is  a  class  which  bears 
as  a  qualifying  adjective  the  substantive  belonging  to 
a  wind  instrument  made  of  a  cheap  and  base  metal. 
But  the  tin  mines  of  Cornwall  never  produced  the 
material  for  manufacturing  descriptive  nomenclature 
for  "Big  Jim"  Dougherty. 

The  habitat  of  the  sport  is  the  lobby  or  the  outside 
corner  of  certain  hotels  and  combination  restaurants 
and  cafes.  They  are  mostly  men  of  different  sizes, 
running  from  small  to  large ;  but  they  are  unanimous 
in  the  possession  of  a  recently  shaven,  blue-black  cheek 
and  chin  and  dark  overcoats  (in  season)  with  black 
velvet  collars. 

Of  the  domestic  life  of  the  sport  little  is  known.  It 
has  been  said  that  Cupid  and  Hymen  sometimes  take 
a  hand  in  the  game  and  copper  the  queen  of  hearts  to 


32  The  Voice  of  the  City 

lose.  Daring  theorists  have  averred  —  not  content 
with  simply  saying  —  that  a  sport  often  contracts  a 
*>  spouse,  and  even  incurs  descendants.  Sometimes  he 
sits  in  the  game  of  politics;  and  then  at  chowder 
picnics  there  is  a  revelation  of  a  Mrs.  Sport  and 
little  Sports  in  glazed  hats  with  tin  pails. 

But  mostly  the  sport  is  Oriental.  He  believes  his 
women-folk  should  not  be  too  patent.  Somewhere 
behind  grilles  or  flower-ornamented  fire  escapes  they 
await  him.  There,  no  doubt,  they  tread  on  rugs  from 
Teheran  and  are  diverted  by  the  bulbul  and  play 
upon  the  dulcimer  and  feed  upon  sweetmeats.  But 
away  from  his  home  the  sport  is  an  integer.  He  doesS 
not,  as  men  of  other  races  in  Manhattan  do,  become 
the  convo^y  in  his  unoccupied  hours  of  fluttering  laces 
and  high  heels  that  tick  off  delectably  the  happy 
seconds  of  the  evening  parade.  He  herds  with  his 
own  race  at  corners,  and  delivers  a  commentary  in  his 
Carib  lingo  upon  the  passing  show, 

"Big  Jim"  Dougherty  had  a  wife,  but  he  did  not 
wear  a  button  portrait  of  her  upon  his  lapel.  He 
had  a  home  in  one  of  those  brown-stone,  iron-railed 
streets  on  the  west  side  that  look  like  a  recently 
excavated  bowling  alley  of  Pompeii. 

To  this  home  of  his  Mr.  Dougherty  repaired  each 
night  when  the  hour  was  so  late  as  to  promise  no 
further  diversion  in  the  arch  domains  of  sport.  By 
that  time  the  occupant  of  the  monogamistic  harera 


Dougherty's  Eye-opener  33 

would  be  in  dreamland,  the  bulbul  silenced  and  the 
hour  propitious  for  slumber. 

"Big  Jim"  always  arose  at  twelve,  meridian,  for 
breakfast,  and  soon  afterward  he  would  return  to  the 
rendezvous  of  his  "crowd." 

He  was  always  vaguely  conscious  that  there  was  a 
Mrs.  Dougherty.  He  would  have  received  without 
denial  the  charge  that  the  quiet,  neat,  comfortable 
little  woman  across  the  table  at  home  was  his  wife. 
In  fact,  he  remembered  pretty  well  that  they  had  been 
married  for  nearly  four  years.  She  would  often  tell 
him  about  the  cute  tricks  of  Spot,  the  canary,  and  • 
the  light-haired  lady  that  lived  in  the  window  of  the 
flat  across  the  street. 

"Big  Jim"  Dougherty  even  listened  to  this  conver 
sation  of  hers  sometimes.  He  knew  that  she  would 
have  a  nice  dinner  ready  for  him  every  evening  at 
seven  when  he  came  for  it.  She  sometimes  went  to 
matinees,  and  she  had  a  talking  machine  with  six  dozen 
records.  Once  when  her  Uncle  Amos  blew  in  on  a 
wind  from  up-state,  she  went  with  him  to  the  Eden 
Musee.  Surely  these  things  were  diversions  enough 
for  any  woman. 

One  afternoon  Mr.  Dougherty  finished  his  break 
fast,  put  on  his  hat  and  got  away  fairly  for  the  door,  i 
When  his  hand  was  on  the  knob  he  heard  his  wife's 
voice. 

"Jim,"  she  said,  firmly,  "I  wish  you  would  take  me 


34  The  Voice  of  the  City 

out  to  dinner  this  evening.  It  has  been  three  years 
since  you  have  been  outside  the  door  with  inc." 

"Big  Jim"  was  astounded.  She  had  never  asked 
anything  like  this  before.  It  had  the  flavor  of  a 
totally  new  proposition.  But  he  was  a  game  sport. 

"All  right,"  he  said.  "You  be  ready  when  I  come 
at  seven.  None  of  this  'wait  two  minutes  till  I  primp 
an  hour  or  two'  kind  of  business,  now,  Dele." 

"I'll  be  ready,"  said  his  wife,  calmly. 

At  seven  she  descended  the  stone  steps  in  the  Pora- 
peian  bowling  alley  at  the  side  of  "Big  Jim"  Dough 
erty*  She  wore  a  dinner  gown  made  of  a  stuff  that 
the  spiders  must  have  woven,  and  of  a  color  that  a 
twilight  sky  must  have  contributed.  A  light  coat  with 
many  admirably  unnecessary  capes  and  adorably 
inutile  ribbons  floated  downward  from  her  shoulders. 
Fine  feathers  do  make  fine  birds;  and  the  only  re 
proach  in  the  saying  is  for  the  man  who  refuses  to 
give  up  his  earnings  to  the  ostrich-tip  industry. 

"Big  Jim"  Dougherty  was  troubled.  There  was  a 
being  at  his  side  whom  he  did  not  know.  lie  thought 
of  the  sober-hued  plumage  that  this  bird  of  paradise 
was  accustomed  to  wear  in  her  cage,  and  this  winged 
revelation  puzzled  him.  In  some  way  she  reminded 
him  of  the  Delia  Cullen  that  he  had  married  four 
years  before.  Shyly  and  rather  awkwardly  he 
stalked  at  her  right  hand. 

"After  dinner  I'll  take  you  back  home,  Dele,"  said 


Dougherty's  Eye-opener  35 

Mr.  Dougherty,  "and  then  I'll  drop  back  up  to  Selt 
zer's  with  the  boys.  You  can  have  swell  chuck  to 
night  if  you  want  it.  I  made  a  winning  on  Anaconda 
yesterday ;  so  you  can  go  as  far  as  you  like." 

Mr.  Dougherty  had  intended  to  make  the  outing 
with  his  unwonted  wife  an  inconspicuous  one.  Uxori- 
ousness  was  a  weakness  that  the  precepts  of  the 
Caribs  did  not  countenance.  If  any  of  his  friends  of 
the  track,  the  billiard  cloth  or  the  square  circle  had 
wives  they  had  never  complained  of  the  fact  in  public. 
There  were  a  number  of  table  d'hote  places  on  the 
cross  streets  near  the  broad  and  shining  way ;  and  to 
one  of  these  lie  had  proposed  to  escort  her,  so  that  the 
bushel  might  not  be  removed  from  the  light  of  his 
domesticity. 

But  while  on  the  way  Mr.  Dougherty  altered  those 
intentions.  He  had  been  casting  stealthy  glances  at 
his  attractive  companion  and  he  was  seized  with  the 
conviction  that  she  was  no  selling  plater.  He  re 
solved  to  parade  with  his  wife  past  Seltzer's  cafe, 
where  at  this  time  a  number  of  his  tribe  would  be 
gathered  to  view  the  daily  evening  procession.  Yes ; 
and  he  would  lake  her  to  dine  at  Hoogley's,  the  swell- 
est  slow-lunch  warehouse  on  the  line,  he  said  to  him 
self. 

The  congregation  of  smooth-faced  tribal  gentle 
men  were  on  watch  at  Seltzer's.  As  Mr.  Dougherty 
and  his  reorganized  Delia  passed  they  stared,  mo- 


36  The  Voice  of  the  City 

mentarily  petrified,  and  then  removed  their  hats  —  a 
performance  as  unusual  to  them  as  was  the  astonish 
ing  innovation  presented  to  their  gaze  by  "Big  Jim." 
On  the  latter  gentleman's  impassive  face  there  ap 
peared  a  slight  flicker  of  triumph  —  a  faint  flicker, 
no  more  to  be  observed  than  the  expression  called 
there  by  the  draft  of  little  casino  to  a  four-card  spade 
flush. 

Hoogley's  was  animated.     Electric  lights  shone  — 
as,  indeed,  they  were  expected  to  do.     And  the  nap- 
ery,  the  glassware  and  the  flowers  also  meritoriously 
performed  the  spectacular  duties  required  of  them. 
The  guests  were  numerous,  well-dressed  and  gay. 

A  waiter  —  not  necessarily  obsequious  —  con 
ducted  "Big  Jim"  Dougherty  and  his  wife  to  a  table. 

"Play  that  menu  straight  across  for  what  you  like, 
Dele,"  said  "Big  Jim."  "It's  you  for  a  trough  of  the 
gilded  oats  to-night.  It  strikes  me  that  maybe  we've 
been  sticking  too  fast  to  home  fodder." 

"Big  Jim's"  wife  gave  her  order.  He  looked  at  her 
with  respect.  She  had  mentioned  truffles  ;  and  he  had 
not  known  that  she  knew  what  truffles  were.  From 
the  wine  list  she  designated  an  appropriate  and  desir 
able  brand.  He  looked  at  her  with  some  admiration. 

She  was  beaming  with  the  innocent  excitement  that 
woman  derives  from  the  exercise  of  her  gregarious- 
ness.  She  was  talking  to  him  about  a  hundred  things 
with  animation  and  delight.  And  as  the  meal  pro- 


Dougherty's  Eye-opener  37 

gressed  her  cheeks,  colorless  from  a  life  indoors,  took 
on  a  delicate  flush.  "Big  Jim"  looked  around  the 
room  and  saw  that  none  of  the  women  there  had  her 
charm.  And  then  he  thought  of  the  three  years  she 
had  suffored  immurement,  uncomplaining,  and  a  flush 
of  shame  warmed  him,  for  he  carried  fair  play  as  an 
item  in  his  creed. 

But  when  the  Honorable  Patrick  Corrigan,  leader 
in  Dougherty's  district  and  a  friend  of  his,  saw  them 
and  came  over  to  the  table,  matters  got  to  the  three- 
quarter  stretch.  The  Honorable  Patrick  was  a  gal 
lant  man,  both  in  deeds  and  words.  As  for  the  Blar 
ney  stone,  his  previous  actions  toward  it  must  have 
been  pronounced.  Heavy  damages  for  breach  of 
promise  could  surely  have  been  obtained  had  the 
Blarney  stone  seen  fit  to  sue  the  Honorable  Patrick. 

"Jimmy,  old  man !"  he  called ;  he  clapped  Dough 
erty  on  the  back;  he  shone  like  a  midday  sun  upon 
Delia. 

"Honorable  Mr.  Corrigan  —  Mrs.  Dougherty," 
said  "Big  Jim." 

The  Honorable  Patrick  became  a  fountain  of  enter 
tainment  and  admiration.  The  waiter  had  to  fetch 
a  third  chair  for  him ;  he  made  another  at  the  table, 
and  the  wineglasses  were  refilled. 

"You  selfish  old  rascal !"  he  exclaimed,  shaking  an 
arch  finger  at  "Big  Jim,"  "to  have  kept  Mrs.  Dough 
erty  a  secret  from  us." 


38  The  Voice  of  the  City 

And  then  "Big  Jim"  Dougherty,  who  was  no  talker, 
sat  dumb,  and  saw  the  wife  who  had  dined  every 
evening  for  three  years  at  home,  blossom  like  a  fairy 
flower.  Quick,  witty,  charming,  full  of  light  and 
ready  talk,  she  received  the  experienced  attack  of 
the  Honorable  Patrick  oa  the  field  of  repartee  and 
surprised,  vanquished,  delighted  him.  She  unfolded 
lies  long-closed  petals  and  around  her  the  room 
Itecame  a  garden.  They  tried  to  include  "Big 
Jim"  in  the  conversation,  but  he  was  without  a 
vocabulary* 

And  then  a  stray  bunch  of  politicians  and  good 
fellows  who  lived  for  sport  came  into  the  room. 
They  saw  "Big  Jim"  and  the  leader,  and  over  they 
came  and  were  made  acquainted  with  Mrs.  Dougherty. 
And  in  a  few  minutes  she  was  holding  a  salon.  Half 
a  dozen  men  surrounded  her,  courtiers  all,  and  six 
found  her  capable  of  charming.  "Big  Jim"  sat, 
grim,  and  kept  saying  to  himself:  '^Three  years, 
three  years  I" 

The  dinner  came  to  an  end.  The  Honorable  Pat 
rick  reached  for  Mrs.  Dougherty's  cloak;  but  that 
was  a  matter  of  action  instead  of  words,  and  Dough 
erty's  big  hand  got  it  first  by  two  seconds. 

While  the  farewells  were  being  said  at  the  door  the 
Honorable  Patrick  smote  Dougherty  mightily  be 
tween  the  shoulders. 

"Jimmy,  me  boy,"  he  declared,  in  a  giant  whisper, 


Dougherty's  Eye-opener  39 

"the  madam  is  a  jewel  of  the  first  water.  Ye're  a 
lucky  dog." 

"Big  Jim"  walked  homeward  with  his  wife.  She 
seemed  quite  as  pleased  with  the  lights  and  show 
windows  in  the  streets  as  with  the  admiration  of  the 
men  in  Hoogley's.  As  they  passed  Seltzer's  they 
heard  the  sound  of  many  voices  in  the  cafe.  The 
boys  would  he  starting  the  drinks  around  now  and 
discussing  past  performances. 

At  the  door  of  their  home  Delia  paused.  The 
pleasure  of  the  outing  radiated  softly  from  her  coun 
tenance.  She  could  not  hope  for  Jim  of  evenings, 
but  the  glory  of  this  one  would  lighten  her  lonely 
hours  for  a  leng  time. 

"Thank  you  for  taking  me  out,  Jim,"  she  said, 
gratefully.  ''You'll  be  going  back  up  to  Seltzer's 
now,  of  course." 

"To  with  Seltzer's,"  said  "Big  Jim,"  em 
phatically.  rtAnd  d— —  Pat  Corrigan!  Does  he 
think  I  haven't  got  any  eyes?" 

And  the  i»or  elosed  behind  both  of  them. 


"LITTLE  SPECK  IN  GARNERED  FRUIT" 

iHE  honeymoon  was  at  its  full.  There  was  a  flat 
with  the  reddest  of  new  carpets,  tasselled  portieres 
and  six  steins  with  pewter  lids  arranged  on  a  ledge 
above  the  wainscoting  of  the  dining-room.  The  won 
der  of  it  was  yet  upon  them.  Neither  of  them  had 
ever  seen  a  yellow  primrose  by  the  river's  brim  ;  but  if 
such  a  sight  had  met  their  eyes  at  that  time  it  would 
ever  seemed  like  —  well,  whatever  the  poet  expected 
the  right  kind  of  people  to  see  in  it  besides  a  prim 
rose. 

The  bride  sat  in  the  rocker  with  her  feet  resting 
upon  the  world.  She  was  wrapt  in  rosy  dreams  and 
a  kimono  of  the  same^Jhuc.  She  wondered  what  the 
people  in  Greenland  and  Tasmania  and  Beloochistan 
were  saying  one  to  another  about  her  marriage  to 
Kid  McGarry.  Not  that  it  made  any  difference. 
There  was  no  welter-weight  from  London  to  the 
Southern  Cross  that  could  stand  up  four  hours  — 
no  ;  four  rounds  —  with  her  bridegroom.  And  he  had 
been  hers  for  three  weeks ;  and  the  crook  of  her  little 
finger  could  sway  him  more  than  the  fist  of  any  142- 
pounder  in  the  world. 

Love,  when  it  is  ours,  is  the  other  name  for  self- 
40 


"Little  Speck  in  Garnered  Fruit"     41 

abnegation  and  sacrifice.  When  it  belongs  to  people 
across  the  airshaft  it  means  arrogance  and  self- 
conceit. 

The  bride  crossed  her  oxfords  and  looked  thought 
fully  at  the  distemper  Cupids  on  the  ceiling. 

"Precious,"  said  she,  with  the  air  of  Cleopatra 
asking  Antony  for  Rome  done  up  in  tissue  paper  and 
delivered  at  residence,  "I  think  I  would  like  a  peach.5" 

Kid  McGarry  arose  and  put  on  his  coat  and  hat. 
He  was  serious,  shaven,  sentimental,  and  spry. 

"All  right,"  said  he,  as  coolly  as  though  he  were 
only  agreeing  to  sign  articles  to  fight  the  champion 
of  England.  "I'll  step  down  and  cop  one  out  for 
you —  see?" 

"Don't  be  long,"  said  the  bride.  "I'll  be  lonesome 
without  my  naughty  boy.  Get  a  nice,  ripe  one." 

After  a  series  of  farewells  that  would  have  befitted 
^an  imminent  voyage  to  foreign  parts,  the  Kid  went 
down  to  the  street. 

Here  he  not  unreasonably  hesitated,  for  the  season 
was  yet  early  spring,  and  there  seemed  small  chance 
of  wresting  anywhere  from  those  chill  streets  and 
stores  the  coveted  luscious  guerdon  of  summer's 
golden  prime. 

At  the  Italian's  fruit-stand  on  the  corner  he 
stopped  and  cast  a  contemptuous  eye  over  the  dis 
play  of  papered  oranges,  highly  polished  apples  and 
wan,  sun-hungry  bananas. 


42  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"Gotta  da  peach?"  asked  the  Kid  in  the  tongue  of 
Dante,  the  lover  of  lovers. 

"Ah,  no,"  sighed  the  vender.  "Not  for  one  mont 
eom-a  da  peach.  Too  soon.  Gotta  da  nice-a  orange. 
Like-a  da  orange?" 

Scornful,  the  Kid  pursued  his  quest.  He  entered 
the  all-night  chop-house,  cafe,  and  bowling-alley  of 
his  friend  and  admirer,  Justus  O'Callahan.  The 
O'Callahan  was  about  in  his  institution,  looking  for 
leaks. 

"I  want  it  straight,"  said  the  Kid  to  him.  "The 
old  woman  has  got  a  hunch  that  she  wants  a  peach. 
Now,  if  you've  got  a  peach,  Cal,  get  it  out  quick.  I 
want  it  and  others  like  it  if  you've  got  *em  in  plural 
quantities." 

"The  house  is  yours,"  said  O'Callahan.  "But 
there's  no  peach  in  it.  It's  too  soon.  I  don't  sup 
pose  you  could  even  find  'em  at  one  of  the  Broadway 
joints.  That's  too  bad.  When  a  lady  fixes  her 
mouth  for  a  certain  kind  of  fruit  nothing  else  won't 
do.  It's  too  late  now  to  find  any  of  the  first-class 
fruiterers  open.  But  if  you  think  the  missis  would 
like  some  nice  oranges  I've  just  got  a  box  of  fine  ones 
in  that  she  might " 

"Much  obliged,  Cal.  It's  a  peach  proposition 
right  from  the  ring  of  the  gong.  I'll  try  further." 

The  time  was  nearly  midnight  as  the  Kid  walked 
down  the  West-Side  avenue.  Few  stores  were  open, 


"Little  Speck  in  Garnered  Fruit33      43 

and  such  as  were  practically  hooted  at  the  idea  of  a 
peach. 

But  in  her  moated  flat  the  bride  confidently  awaited 
her  Persian  fruit.  A  champion  welter-weight  not  find 
a  peach?  —  not  stride  triumphantly  over  the  seasons 
and  the  zodiac  and  the  almanac  to  fetch  an  Amsden's 
June  or  a  Georgia  cling  to  his  owny-own? 

The  Kid's  eye  caught  sight  of  a  window  that  was 
lighted  and  gorgeous  with  nature's  most  entrancing 
colors.  The  light  suddenly  went  out.  The  Kid 
sprinted  and  caught  the  fruiterer  locking  his  door. 

"Peaches?"  said  he,  with  extreme  deliberation. 

"Well,  no,  sir.  Not  for  three  or  four  weeks  yet. 
I  haven't  any  idea  where  you  might  find  some.  There 
may  be  a  few  in  town  from  under  the  glass,  but  they'd 
be  hard  to  locate.  Maybe  at  one  of  the  more  ex 
pensive  hotels  —  some  place  where  there's  plenty  of 
money  to  waste.  I've  got  some  very  fine  oranges, 
though  —  from  a  shipload  that  came  in  to-day." 

The  Kid  lingered  on  the  corner  for  a  moment,  and 
then  set  out  briskly  toward  a  pair  of  green  lights 
that  flanked  the  steps  of  a  building  down  a  dark  side 
street. 

"Captain  around  anywhere?"  he  asked  of  the  desk 
sergeant  of  the  police  station. 

At  that  moment  the  captain  came  briskly  forward 
from  the  rear.  He  was  in  plain  clothes  and  had  a 
busy  air. 


44  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"Hello,  Kid,"  he  said  to  the  pugilist.  "Thought 
you  were  bridal-touring?" 

"Got  back  yesterday.  I'm  a  solid  citizen  now. 
Think  I'll  take  an  interest  in  municipal  doings.  How 
would  it  suit  you  to  get  into  Denver  Dick's  place 
to-night,  Cap?" 

"Past  performances,"  said  the  captain.,  twisting 
his  moustache.  "Denver  was  closed  up  two  months 
ago." 

"Correct,"  said  the  Kid.  "Rafferty  chased  him 
out  of  the  Forty-third.  He's  running  in  your  pre 
cinct  now,  and  his  game's  bigger  than  ever.  I'm 
down  on  this  gambling  business.  I  can  put  you 
against  his  game." 

"In  my  precinct?"  growled  the  captain.  "Are 
you  sure,  Kid?  I'll  take  it  as  a  favor.  Have  you 
got  the  entree?  How  is  it  to  be  done?" 

"Hammers,"  said  the  Kid.  "They  haven't  got  any 
steel  on  the  doors  yet.  You'll  need  ten  men.  No ; 
they  won't  let  me  in  the  place.  Denver  has  been 
trying  to  do  me.  He  thought  I  tipped  him  off  for 
the  other  raid.  I  didn't,  though.  You  want  to  hurry. 
I've  got  to  get  back  home.  The  house  is  only  three 
blocks  from  here." 

Before  ten  minutes  had  sped  the  captain  with  a 
dozen  men  stole  with  their  guide  into  the  hallway  of 
a  dark  and  virtuous-looking  building  in  which  many 
businesses  were  conducted  bv  dav. 


"Little  Speck  in  Garnered  Fruit"     45 

"Third  floor,  rear,"  said  the  Kid,  softly.  "I'll  lead 
the  way." 

Two  axemen  faced  the  door  that  he  pointed  out  to 
them. 

"It  seems  all  quiet,"  said  the  captain,  doubtfully. 
"Are  you  sure  your  tip  is  straight?" 

"Cut  away!"  said  the  Kid.  "It's  on  me  if  it 
ain't." 

The  axes  crashed  through  the  as  yet  unprotected 
door.  A  blaze  of  light  from  within  poured  through 
the  smashed  panels.  The  door  fell,  and  the  raiders 
sprang  into  the  room  with  their  guns  handy. 

The  big  room  was  furnished  with  the  gaudy  mag 
nificence  dear  to  Denver  Dick's  western  ideas.  Vari 
ous  well-patronized  games  were  in  progress.  About 
fifty  rnen"who  were  in  the  room  rushed  upon  the  police 
in  a  grand  break  for  personal  liberty.  The  plain- 
clothes  men  had  to  do  a  little  club-swinging.  More 
than  half  the  patrons  escaped. 

Denver  Dick  had  graced  his  game  with  his  own 
presence  that  night.  He  led  the  rush  that  was  in 
tended  to  sweep  away  the  smaller  body  of  raiders. 
But  when  he  saw  the  Kid  his  manner  became  personal. 
Being  in  the  heavy-weight  class  he  cast  himself  joy 
fully  upon  his  slighter  enemy,  and  they  rolled  down  a 
flight  of  stairs  in  each  other's  arms.  On  the  land 
ing  they  separated  and  arose,  and  then  the  Kid  was 
able  to  use  some  of  his  professional  tactics,  which  had 


46  The  Voice  of  the  City 

been  useless  to  him  while  in  the  excited  clutch  of  a 
200-pound  sporting  gentleman  who  was  about  to  lose 
$20,000  worth  of  paraphernalia. 

After  vanquishing  his  adversary  the  Kid  hurried 
upstairs  and  through  the  gambling-room  into  a 
smaller  apartment  connecting  by  an  arched  doorway. 

Here  was  a  long  table  set  with  choicest  china  ware 
and  silver,  and  lavishly  furnished  with  food  of  that 
expensive  and  spectacular  sort  of  which  the  devotees 
of  sport  are  supposed  to  be  fond.  Here  again  was 
to  be  perceived  the  liberal  and  florid  taste  of  the  gen- 
tleman  with  the  urban  cognomenal  prefix.  ^ 

A  No.  10  patent  leather  shoe  protruded  a  few  of 
its  inches  outside  the  tablecloth  along  the  floor.  The 
Kid  seized  this  and  plucked  forth  a  black  man  in  a 
white  tie  and  the  garb  of  a  servitor. 

"Get  up!"  commanded  the  Kid.  "Are  you  in 
charge  of  this  free  lunch?" 

"Yes,  sah,  I  was.  Has  they  done  pinched  us  ag'in, 
boss?" 

"Looks  that  way.  Listen  to  me.  Are  there  any 
peaches  in  this  layout?  If  there  ain't  I'll  have  to 
throw  up  the  sponge." 

"There  was  three  dozen,  sah,  when  the  game 
opened  this  evenin' ;  but  I  reckon  the  gentlemen  done 
eat  'em  all  up.  If  you'd  like  to  eat  a  fust-rate 
orange,  sah,  I  kin  find  you  some." 

"Get  busy,"  ordered  the  Kid  sternly,  "and  move 


"Little  Speck  in  Garnered  Fruit"     47 

whatever  peach  crop  you've  got  quick  or  there'll  be 
trouble.  If  anybody  oranges  me  again  to-night,  I'll 
knock  his  face  off." 

The  raid  on  Denver  Dick's  high-priced  arid  prodi 
gal  luncheon  revealed  one  lone,  last  peach  that  had 
escaped  the  epicurean  jaws  of  the  followers  of 
chance.  Into  the  Kid's  pocket  it  went,  and  that  in 
defatigable  forager  departed  immediately  with  his 
prize.  With  scarcely  a  glance  at  the  scene  on  the 
sidewalk  below,  where  the  officers  were  loading  their 
prisoners  into  the  patrol  wagons,  he  moved  homeward 
with  long,  swift  strides. 

His  heart  was  light  as  he  went.  So  rode  the 
knights  back  to  Camelot  after  perils  and  high  deeds 
done  for  their  ladies  fair.  The  Kid's  lady  had  com 
manded  him  and  he  had  obeyed.  True,  it  was  but  a 
peach  that  she  had  craved ;  but  it  had  been  no  small 
deed  to  glean  a  peach  at  midnight  from  that  wintry 
city  where  yet  the  February  snows  lay  like  iron. 
She  had  asked  for  a  peach ;  she  was  his  bride ;  in  his 
pocket  the  peach  was  warming  in  his  hand  that  held 
it  for  fear  that  it  might  fall  out  and  be  lost. 

On  the  way  the  Kid  turned  in  at  an  all-night  drug 
store  and  said  to  the  spectacled  clerk: 

"Say,  sport,  I  wish  you'd  size  up  this  rib  of  mine 
and  see  if  it's  broke.  I  was  in  a  little  scrap  and 
bumped  down  a  flight  or  two  of  stairs." 

The  druggist  made  an  examination. 


48  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"It  isn't  broken,"  was  his  diagnosis ;  "but  you  have 
a  bruise  there  that  looks  like  you'd  fallen  off  the 
Flatiron  twice." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  the  Kid.  "Let's  have 
your  clothesbrush,  please." 

The  bride  waited  in  the  rosy  glow  of  the  pink  lamp 
shade.  The  miracles  were  not  all  passed  away.  By 
breathing  a  desire  for  some  slight  thing  —  a  flower, 
a  pomegranate,  a  —  oh,  yes,  a  peach  —  she  could 
send  forth  her  man  into  the  night,  into  the  world 
which  could  not  withstand  him,  and  he  would  do  her 
bidding. 

And  now  he  stood  by  her  chair  and  laid  the  peach 
in  her  hand. 

"Naughty  boy !"  she  said,  fondly.  "Did  I  say  a 
peach?  I  think  I  would  much  rather  have  had  an 
orange." 

Blest  be  the  bride. 


THE  HARBINGER 

LONG  before  the  springtide  is  felt  in  the  dull  bosom 
of  the  yokel  does  the  city  man  know  that  the  grass- 
green  goddess  is  upon  her  throne.  He  sits  at  his 
breakfast  eggs  and  toast,  begirt  by  stone  walls,  opens 
his  morning  paper  and  sees  journalism  leave  vernal- 
ism  at  the  post. 

For,  whereas,  spring's  couriers  were  once  the  evi 
dence  of  our  finer  senses,  now  the  Associated  Press 
does  the  trick. 

The  warble  of  the  first  robin  in  Hackensack,  the 
stirring  of  the  maple  sap  in  Bennington,  the  budding 
of  the  pussy  willows  along  Main  Street  in  Syracuse, 
the  first  chirp  of  the  bluebird,  the  swan  song  of  the 
Blue  Point,  the  annual  tornado  in  St.  Louis,  the 
plaint  of  the  peach  pessimist  from  Pompton,  N.  J., 
the  regular  visit  of  the  tame  wild  goose  with  a  broken 
leg  to  the  pond  near  Bilgewater  Junction,  the  base 
attempt  of  the  Drug  Trust  to  boost  the  price  of 
quinine  foiled  in  the  House  by  Congressman  Jinks, 
the  first  tall  poplar  struck  by  lightning  and  the  usual 
stunned  picknickers  who  had  taken  refuge,  the  first 
crack  of  the  ice  jam  in  the  Allegheny  River,  the  find 
ing  of  a  violet  in  its  mossy  bed  by  the  correspondent 

49 


50  The  Voice  of  the  City 

at  Round  Corners  —  these  are  the  advance  signs  of 
the  burgeoning  season  that  are  wired  into  the  wise 
city,  while  the  farmer  sees  nothing  but  winter  upon 
his  dreary  fields. 

But  these  be  mere  externals.  The  true  harbinger 
is  the  heart.  When  Strcphon  seeks  his  Chloe  and 
Mike  his  Maggie,  then  only  is  spring  arrived  and  the 
newspaper  report  of  the  five-foot  rattier  killed  in 
Squire  Pettigrew's  pasture  confirmed. 

Ere  the  first  violet  blew,  Mr.  Peters,  Mr.  Ragsdale 
and  Mr.  Kidd  sat  together  on  a  bench  in  Union 
Square  and  conspired.  Mr.  Peters  was  the  D'Artag- 
nan  of  the  loafers  there.  He  was  the  dingiest,  the 
laziest,  the  sorriest  brown  blot  against  the  green  back 
ground  of  any  bench  in  the  park.  But  just  then  he 
was  the  most  important  of  the  trio. 

Mr.  Peters  had  a  wife.  This  had  not  heretofore 
affected  his  standing  with  Ragsy  and  Kidd.  But  to 
day  it  invested  him  with  a  peculiar  interest.  His 
friends,  having  escaped  matrimony,  had  shown  a  dis 
position  to  deride  Mr.  Peters  for  his  venture  on  that 
troubled  sea.  But  at  last  they  had  been  forced  to 
acknowledge  that  either  he  had  been  gifted  with  a 
large  foresight  or  that  he  was  one  of  Fortune's  lucky 
sons. 

For,  Mrs.  Peters  had  a  dollar.  A  whole  dollar 
bill,  good  and  receivable  by  the  Government  for  cus 
toms,  taxes  and  all  public  dues.  How  to  get  pos- 


The  Harbinger  51 

session  of  that  dollar  was  the  question  up  for  discus 
sion  by  the  three  musty  musketeers. 

"How  do  you  know  it  was  a  dollar?"  asked  Ragsy, 
the  immensity  of  the  sum  inclining  him  to  scepticism. 

"The  coalman  seen  her  have  it,"  said  Mr.  Peters. 
"She  went  out  and  done  some  washing  yesterday. 
And  look  what  she  give  me  for  breakfast  —  the  heel 
of  a  loaf  and  a  cup  of  coffee,  and  her  with  a  dollar !" 

"It's  fierce,"  said  Ragsy. 

"Sa}r  we  go  up  and  purich  'er  and  stick  a  towel 
in  'er  mouth  and  cop  the  coin,"  suggested  Kidd, 
viciously.  "Y5  ain't  afraid  of  a  woman,  are  you?" 

"She  might  holler  and  have  us  pinched,"  demurred 
Ragsy.  "I  don't  believe  in  slugging  no  woman  in  a 
houseful  of  people." 

"Gent'men,"  said  Mr.  Peters,  severely,  through  his 
russet  stubble,  "remember  that  you  are  speaking  of 
my  wife.  A  man  who  would  lift  his  hand  to  a  lady 
except  in  the  way  of " 

"Maguire,"  said  Ragsy,  pointedly,  "has  got  his 
bock  beer  sign  out.  If  we  had  a  dollar  we  could " 

"Hush  up !"  said  Mr.  Peters,  licking  his  lips. 
"We  got  to  get  that  case  note  somehow,  bovs.  Ain't 
what's  a  man's  wife's  his?  Leave  it  to  me.  I'll  go 
over  to  the  house  and  get  it.  Wait  here  for 
me." 

"I've  seen  'em  give  up  quick,  and  tell  you  where 
it's  hid  if  you  kick  'em  in  the  ribs,"  said  Kidd. 


52  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"No  man  would  kick  a  woman,"  said  Peters,  virtu 
ously.  "A  little  choking  —  just  a  touch  on  the  wind 
pipe  —  that  gets  away  with  'em  —  and  no  marks  left. 
Wait  for  me.  I'll  bring  back  that  dollar,  boys." 

High  up  in  a  tenement-house  between  Second  Ave 
nue  and  the  river  lived  the  Peterses  in  a  back  room 
so  gloomy  that  the  landlord  blushed  to  take  the  rent 
for  it.  Mrs.  Peters  worked  at  sundry  times,  doing 
odd  jobs  of  scrubbing  and  washing.  Mr.  Peters  had 
a  pure,  unbroken  record  of  five  years  without  having 
earned  a  penny.  And  yet  they  clung  together,  shar 
ing  each  other's  hatred  and  misery,  being  creatures 
of  habit.  Of  habit,  the  power  that  keeps  the  earth 
from  flying  to  pieces ;  though  there  is  some  silly  theory 
of  gravitation. 

Mrs.  Peters  reposed  her  200  pounds  on  the  safer 
of  the  two  chairs  and  gazed  stolidly  out  the  one  win 
dow  at  the  brick  wall  opposite.  Her  eyes  were  red 
and  damp.  The  furniture  could  have  been  carried 
away  on  a  pushcart,  but  no  pushcart  man  would  have 
removed  it  as  a  gift. 

The  door  opened  to  admit  Mr.  Peters.  His  fox- 
terrier  eyes  expressed  a  wish.  His  wife's  diagnosis 
located  correctly  the  seat  of  it,  but  misread  it  hunger 
instead  of  thirst. 

"You'll  get  nothing  more  to  eat  till  night,"  she 
said,  looking  out  of  the  window  again.  "Take  your 
hound-dog's  face  out  of  the  room." 


The  Harbinger  53 

Mr.  Peters's  eye  calculated  the  distance  betweeft 
them.  By  taking  her  by  surprise  it  might  be  possible 
to  spring  upon  her,  overthrow  her,  and  apply  the 
throttling  tactics  of  which  he  had  boasted  to  his 
waiting  comrades.  True,  it  had  been  only  a  boast; 
never  yet  had  he  dared  to  lay  violent  hands  upon 
her ;  but  with  the  thoughts  of  the  delicious,  cool  bock 
or  Culmbacher  bracing  his  nerves,  he  was  near  to  up 
setting  his  own  theories  of  the  treatment  due  by  a 
gentleman  to  a  lady.  But,  with  his  loafer's  love  for 
the  more  artistic  and  less  strenuou's  way,  he  chose 
diplomacy  first,  the  high  card  in  the  game  —  the 
assumed  attitude  of  success  already  attained. 

"You  have  a  dollar,"  he  said,  loftily,  but  signifi 
cantly  in  the  tone  that  goes  with  the  lighting  of  a 
cigar  —  when  the  properties  are  at  hand. 

"I  have,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  producing  the  bill  from 
her  bosom  and  crackling  it,  teasingly. 

"I  am  offered  a  position  in  a  —  in  a  tea  store," 
said  Mr.  Peters.  "I  am  to  begin  work  to-morrow. 
But  it  will  be  necessary  for  me  to  buy  a  pair  of " 

"You  are  a  liar,"  said  Mrs.  Peters,  reinterring  the 
note.  "No  tea  store,  nor  no  A  B  C  store,  nor  no 
junk  shop  would  have  you.  I  rubbed  the  skin  off 
both  me  hands  washin'  jumpers  and  overalls  to  make 
that  dollar.  Do  you  think  it  come  out  of  them  suds 
to  buy  the  kind  you  put  into  you?  Skiddoo!  Get 
your  mind  off  of  money." 


54  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Evidently  the  poses  of  Talleyrand  were  not  worth 
one  hundred  cents  on  that  dollar.  But  diplomacy  is 
dexterous.  The  artistic  temperament  of  Mr.  Peters 
Jifted  him  by  the  straps  of  his  congress  gaiters  and 
set  him  on  new  ground.  He  called  up  a  look  of  des 
perate  melancholy  to  his  eyes. 

"Clara,"  he  said,  hollowly,  "to  struggle  further 
is  useless.  You  have  always  misunderstood  me. 
Heaven  knows  I  have  striven  with  all  my  might  to 
keep  my  head  above  the  waves  of  misfortune, 
but " 

"Cut  out  the  rainbow  of  hope  and  that  stuff  about 
walkin'  one  by  one  through  the  narrow  isles  of  Spain," 
said  Airs.  Peters,  with  a  sigh.  "I've  heard  it  so  often. 
There's  an  ounce  bottle  of  carbolic  on  the  shelf  be 
hind  the  empty  coffee  can.  Drink  hearty." 

Mr.  Peters  reflected.  What  next !  The  old  expe 
dients  had  failed.  The  two  musty  musketeers  were 
awaiting  him  hard  by  the  ruined  chateau  —  that  is  to 
say,  on  a  park  bench  with  rickety  cast-iron  legs.  His 
honor  was  at  stake.  He  had  engaged  to  storm  the 
castle  single-handed  and  bring  back  the  treasure  that 
was  to  furnish  them  wassail  and  solace.  And  all  that 
stood  between  him  and  the  coveted  dollar  was  his  wife, 
once  a  little  girl  whom  he  could  —  aha !  —  why  not 
again?  Once  with  soft  words  he  could,  as  they  say, 
twist  her  around  his  little  finger.  Why  not  again? 
Not  for  years  had  he  tried  it.  Grim  poverty  arid 


The  Harbinger  55 

mutual  hatred  had  killed  all  that.     But  Ragsy  and 
Kidd  were  waiting  for  him  to  bring  that  dollar ! 

Mr.  Peters  took  a  surreptitiously  keen  look  at  his  * 
wife.     Her  formless  bulk  overflowed  the  chair.     She 
kept  her  eyes  fixed  out  the  window  in  a  strange  kind 
of  trance.     Her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  been  re 
cently  weeping. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Mr.  Peters  to  himself,  "if  there'd 
be  anything  in  it." 

The  window  was  open  upon  its  outlook  of  brick 
walls  and  drab,  barren  back  yards.  Except  for  the 
mildness  of  the  air  that  entered  it  might  have  been 
midwinter  yet  in  the  city  that  turns  such  a  frown 
ing  face  to  besieging  spring.  But  spring  doesn't 
come  with  the  thunder  of  cannon.  She  is  a  sapper 
and  a  miner,  and  you  must  capitulate. 

"I'll  try  it,"  said  Mr.  Peters  to  himself,  making  a 
wry  face. 

He  went  up  to  his  wife  and  put  his  arm  across  her 
shoulders. 

"Clara,  darling,"  he  said  in  tones  that  shouldn't 
have  fooled  a  baby  seal,  "why  should  we  have  hard 
words?  Ain't  you  my  own  tootsuin  wootsum?" 

A  black  mark  against  you,  Mr.  Peters,  in  the  sacred 
ledger  of  Cupid.  Charges  of  attempted  graft  are 
filed  against  you,  and  of  forgery  and  utterance  of  two 
of  Love's  holiest  of  appellations. 

But  the  miracle  of  spring  was  wrought.     Into  the 


56  The  Voice  of  the  City 

back  room  over  the  back  alley  between  the  black  walls 
had  crept  the  Harbinger.  It  was  ridiculous,  and 

yet Well,  it  is  a  rat  trap,  and  you,  madam 

and  sir  and  all  of  us,  are  in  it. 

Red  and  fat  and  crying  like  Niobe  or  Niagara, 
Mrs.  Peters  threw  her  arms  around  her  lord  and  dis 
solved  upon  him.  Mr.  Peters  would  have  striven  to 
extricate  the  dollar  bill  from  its  deposit  vault,  but  his 
arms  were  bound  to  his  sides. 

"Do  you  love  me,  James?"  asked  Mrs.  Peters. 

"Madly,"  said  James,  "but " 

"You  are  ill !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Peters.  "Why  are 
you  so  pale  and  tired  looking?" 

"I  feel  weak,"  said  Mr.  Peters.     "I " 

"Oh,  wait;  1  know  what  it  is.  Wait,  James.  I'll 
be  back  in  a  minute." 

With  a  parting  hug  that  revived  in  Mr.  Peters 
recollections  of  the  Terrible  Turk,  his  wife  hurried 
out  of  the  room  and  down  the  stairs. 

Mr.  Peters  hitched  his  thumbs  under  his  sus 
penders. 

"All  right,"  he  confided  to  the  ceiling.  "I've  got 
her  going.  I  hadn't  any  idea  the  old  girl  was  soft 
any  more  under  the  foolish  rib.  Well,  sir;  ain't  I 
the  Claude  Melnotte  of  the  lower  East  Side?  What? 
It's  a  100  to  1  shot  that  I  get  the  dollar.  I  wonder 
what  she  went  out  for.  I  guess  she's  gone  to  tell 
Mrs.  Muldoon  on  the  second  floor,  that  we're  recon- 


The  Harbinger  57 

ciled.  I'll  remember  this.  Soft  soap !  And  Ragsy 
was  talking  about  slugging  her !" 

Mrs.  Peters  came  back  with  a  bottle  of  sarsapa- 
rilla. 

"I'm  glad  I  happened  to  have  that  dollar,"  she  said. 
"You're  all  run  down,  honey." 

Mr.  Peters  had  a  tablespoonful  of  the  stuff  in 
serted  into  him.  Then  Mrs.  Peters  sat  on  his  lap 
and  murmured : 

"Call  me  tootsum  wootsums  again,  James." 

He  sat  still,  held  there  by  his  materialized  goddess 
of  spring. 

Spring  had  come. 

On  the  bench  in  Union  Square  Mr.  Ragsdale  and 
Mr.  Kidd  squirmed,  tongue-parched,  awaiting  D?Ar- 
tagnan  and  his  dollar. 

"I  wish  I  had  choked  her  at  first,"  said  Mr.  Peters 
to  himself. 


sWHILE  THE  AUTO  WAITS 

PROMPTLY  at  the  beginning  of  twilight,  came 
again  to  that  quiet  corner  of  that  quiet,  small  park 
the  girl  in  gray.  She  sat  upon  a  bench  and  read  a 
book,  for  there  was  yet  to  come  a  half  hour  in  which 
^  print  could  be  accomplished. 

To  repeat :  Her  dress  was  gray,  and  plain  enough 
to  mask  its  impeccancy  of  style  and  fit.  A  large-  * 
meshed  veil  imprisoned  her  turban  hat  and  a  face  that 
shone  through  it  with  a  cairn  and  unconscious  beauty, 
She  had  come  there  at  the  same  hour  on  the  day 
previous,  and  on  the  day  before  that ;  and  there  was 
one  wlio  knew  it. 

The  young  man  who  knew  it  hovered  near,  relying 

^upon  burnt  sacrifices  to  the  great  joss,  Luck.     His 

piety  was  rewarded,  for,  in  turning  a  page,  her  book 

sL-jjped  from  her  fingers  and  bounded  from  the  bench 

a  f-ill  yard  away. 

The  young  man  pounced  upon  it  with  instant  avid 
ity,  returning  it  to  its  owner  with  that  air  that  seems 
to  flourish  in  parks  and  public  places  —  a  compound 
of  gallantry  and  hope,  tempered  with  respect  for  the 
policeman  on  the  beat.  In  a  pleasant  voice,  he  risked 
an  inconsequent  remark  upon  the  weather  —  that  in- 

58 


While  the  Auto  Waits  59 

troductory  topic  responsible  for  so  much  of  the 
world's  unhappiness  —  and  stood  poised  for  a  mo 
ment,  awaiting  his  fate. 

The  girl  looked  him  over  leisurely ;  at  his  ordinary, 
neat  dress  and  his  features  distinguished  by  nothing 
particular  in  the  way  of  expression. 

"You  may  sit  down,  if  you  like,"  she  said,  in  a, 
full,  deliberate  contralto.  "Really,  I  would  like  to 
have  you  do  so.  The  light  is  too  bad  for  reading. 
I  would  prefer  to  talk." 

The  vassal  of  Luck  slid  upon  the  seat  by  her  side 
with  complaisance. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  said,  speaking  the  formula  with 
which  park  chairmen  open  their  meetings,  "that  you 
are  quite  the  stunningest  girl  I  have  seen  in  a  long 
time?  I  had  my  eye  on  you  yesterday.  Didn't  know 
somebody  was  bowled  over  by  those  pretty  lamps  of 
yours,  did  you,  honeysuckle?" 

"Whoever  you  are,"  said  the  girl,  in  icy  tones, 
"you  must  remember  that  I  am  a  lady.  I  will  excuse 
the  remark  you  have  just  made  because  the  mistake 
was,  doubtless,  not  an  unnatural  one  —  in  your  circle. 
I  asked  you  to  sit  down;  if  the  invitation  must, 
constitute  me  your  honeysuckle,  consider  it  with 
drawn." 

I  earnestly  beg  your  pardon,"  pleaded  the  young 
man.  His  expression  of  satisfaction  had  changed  to 
one  of  penitence  and  humility.  "It  was  my  fault, 


60  The  Voice  of  the  City 

you  know  —  I  mean,  there  are  girls  in  parks,  you 
know  —  that  is,  of  course,  you  don't  know,  but " 

"Abandon  the  subject,  if  you  please.  Of  course 
I  know.  Now,  tell  me  about  these  people  passing 
and  crowding,  each  way,  along  these  paths.  Where 
are  they  going?  Why  do  they  hurry  so?  Are  they 
happy  ?" 

The  young  man  had  promptly  abandoned  his  air/ 
of  coquetry.     His  cue  was  now  for  a  waiting  part; 
he  could  not  guess  the  role  he  would  be  expected  to 
play. 

"It  is  interesting  to  watch  them,"  he  replied,  pos 
tulating  her  mood.  "It  is  the  wonderful  drama  of 
life.  Some  are  going  to  supper  and  some  to  —  er  — 
other  places.  One  wonders  what  their  histories  are." 

"I  do  not,"  said  the  girl ;  "I  am  not  so  inquisi 
tive.  I  come  here  to  sit  because  here,  only,  can  I 
be  near  the  great,  common,  throbbing  heart  of  hu-  , 
manity.  My  part  in  afe  is  cast  where  its  beats  are 
never  felt.  Can  you  surmise  why  I  spoke,  to  you, 
Mr. ?" 

"Parkenstacker,"  supplied  the  young  man.  Then 
he  looked  eager  and  hopeful. 

"No,"  said  the  girl,  holding  tip  a  slender  finger, 
and  smiling  slightly.  "You  would  recognize  it  im 
mediately.  It  is  impossible  to  keep  one's  name  out 
of  print.  Or  even  one's  portrait.  This  veil  and  this 
hat  of  my  maid  furnish  me  with  an  incog.  You 


While  the  Auto  Waits  61 

should  have  seen  the  chauffeur  stare  at  it  when  he 
thought  I  did  not  see.  Candidly,  there  are  five  or  six 
names  that  belong  in  the  holy  of  holies,  and  mine,  by 
the  accident  of  birth,  is  one  of  them.  I  spoke  to  you, 
Mr.  Stackenpot " 

"Parkenstacker,"  corrected  the  young  man,  mod 
estly. 

" —  Mr.  Parkenstacker,  because  I  wanted  to  talk, 
for  once,  with  a  natural  man  —  one  unspoiled  by  the 
despicable  gloss  of  wealth  and  supposed  social  supe- 
riorit3r.  Oh !  you  do  not  know  how  weary  I  am  of 
it  —  money,  money,  money !  And  of  the  men  who 
surround  me,  dancing  like  little  marionettes  all  cut  by 
the  same  pattern.  I  am  sick  of  pleasure,  of  jewels, 
of  travel,  of  society,  of  luxuries  of  all  kinds." 

"I  always  had  an  idea,"  ventured  the  young  man, 
hesitatingly,  "that  money  must  be  a  pretty  good 
thing." 

"A  competence  is  to  be1  desired.  But  when  you 

have  so  many  millions  that !"  She  concluded 

the  sentence  with  a  gesture  of  despair.  "It  is  the 
monotony  of  it,"  she  continued,  "that  palls.  Drives, 
dinners,  theatres,  balls,  suppers,  with  the  gilding  of 
superfluous  wealth  over  it  all.  Sometimes  the  very 
tinkle  of  the  ice  in  my  champagne  glass  nearly  drives 
me  mad." 

Mr.  Parkenstacker  looked  ingenuously  interest- 

"I  have  always  liked,"  he  said,  "to  read  and  Lear 


62  The  Voice  of  the  City 

about  the  ways  of  wealthy  and  fashionable  folks.  I 
suppose  I  am  a  bit  of  a  snob.  But  I  like  to  have  my 
information  accurate.  Now,  I  had  formed  the  opin 
ion  that  champagne  is  cooled  in  the  bottle  and  not  by 
placing  ice  in  the  glass." 

The  girl  gave  a  musical  laugh  of  genuine  amuse 
ment. 

"You  should  know,"  she  explained,  in  an  indul 
gent  tone,  "that  we  of  the  non-useful  class  depend 
for  our  amusement  upon  departure  from  precedent.  * 
Just  now  it  is  a  fad  to  put  ice  in  champagne.     The 
idea  was  originated  by  a  visiting  Prince  of  Tartary 
while  dining  at  the  Waldorf.     It  will  soon  give  way 
to  some  other  whim.     Just  as  at  a  dinner  party  this 
week  on  Madison  Avenue  a  green  k;id  glove  was  laid 
by  the  plate  of  each  guest  to  be  put  on  and  used  while  * 
eating  olives." 

"I  see,"  admitted  the  young  man,  humbly.  "These 
special  diversions  of  the  inner  circle  do  not  become 
familiar  to  the  common  public." 

"Sometimes,"  continued  the  girl,  acknowledging 
his  confession  of  error  by  a  slight  bow,  "I  have 
thought  that  if  I  ever  should  love  a  man  it  would  be 
one  of  lowly  station.  One  who  is  a  worker  and  not  a 
drone.  But,  doubtless,  the  claims  of  caste  and  wealth 
will  prove  stronger  than  my  inclination.  Just  now 
I  am  besieged  by  two.  One  is  a  Grand  Duke  of  a 
German  principality.  I  think  he  has,  or  has  had,  a 


While  the  Auto  Waits  63 

wife,  somewhere,  driven  mad  by  his  intemperance  and 
cruelty.  The  other  is  an  English  Marquis,  so  cold 
and  mercenary  that  I  even  prefer  the  diabolism  of 
the  Duke.  What  is  it  that  impels  me  to  tell  you  these 
things,  Mr.  Packenstacker?" 

"Parkenstacker,"  breathed  the  young  man.  "In 
deed,  you  cannot  know  how  much  I  appreciate  your 
confidences." 

The  girl  contemplated  him  with  the  calm,  imper 
sonal  regard  that  befitted  the  difference  in  their  sta 
tions. 

"What  is  your  line  of  business,  Mr.  Parken 
stacker?"  she  asked. 

"A  very  humble  one.  But  I  hope  to  rise  in  the 
world.  Were  you  really  in  earnest  when  you  said 
that  you  could  love  a  man  of  lowly  position?" 

"Indeed  I  was.  But  I  said  'might.'  There  is  the 
Grand  Duke  and  the  Marquis,  you  know.  Yes;  no 
calling  could  be  too  humble  were  the  man  what  I  would 
wish  him  to  be." 

"I  work,"  declared  Mr.  Parkenstacker,  "in  a  res 
taurant." 

The  girl  shrank  slightly. 

"Not  as  a  waiter?"  she  said,  a  little  imploringly, 
"Labor   is    noble,    but  —  personal    attendance,    you    ' 
know  —  valets  and " 

"I  am  not  a  waiter.  I  am  cashier  in" —  on  the 
street  they  faced  that  bounded  the  opposite  side  of 


64  The  Voice  of  the  City 

the  park  was  the  brilliant  electric  sign  "RESTAU 
RANT" — "I  am  cashier  in  that  restaurant  you  see 
there." 

The  girl  consulted  a  tiny  watch  set  in  a  bracelet  of 
rich  design  upon  her  left  wrist,  and  rose,  hurriedly. 
She  thrust  her  book  into  a  glittering  reticule  sus 
pended  from  her  waist,  for  which,  however,  the  book 
was  too  large. 

"Why  are  you  not  at  work?"  she  asked. 

"I  am  on  the  night  turn,"  said  the  young  man; 
"it  is  yet  an  hour  before  my  period  begins.  May  I 
not  hope  to  see  you  again?" 

"I  do  not  know.  Perhaps  —  but  the  whim  may 
not  seize  me  again.  I  must  go  quickly  now.  There 
is  a  dinner,  and  a  box  at  the  play  —  and,  oh !  the 
same  old  round.  Perhaps  you  noticed  an  automobile 
at  the  upper  corner  of  the  park  as  you  came.  One 
with  a  white  body." 

"And  red  running  gear?"  asked  the  young  man, 
knitting  his  brows  reflectively. 

"Yes.  I  always  come  in  that.  Pierre  waits  for 
me  there.  He  supposes  me  to  be  shopping  in  the 
department  store  across  the  square.  Conceive  of  the 
bondage  of  the  life  wherein  we  must  deceive  even  our 
chauffeurs.  Good-night." 

"But  it  is  dark  now,"  said  Mr.  Parkenstacker, 
"and  the  park  is  full  of  rude  raen.  May  I  not 


While  the  Auto  Waits  65 

"If  you  have  the  slightest  regard  for  my  wishes," 
said  the  girl,  firmly,  "you  will  remain  at  this  bench 
for  ten  minutes  after  I  have  left.  I  do  not  mean  to 
accuse  you,  but  you  are  probably  aware  that  autos 
generally  bear  the  monogram  of  their  owner.  Again,, 
good-night." 

Swift  and  stately  she  moved  away  through  the 
dusk.  The  young  man  watched  her  graceful  form 
as  she  reached  the  pavement  at  the  park's  edge,  and 
turned  up  along  it  toward  the  corner  where  stood  the 
automobile.  Then  he  t  readier ously  and  unhesitat 
ingly  began  to  dodge  and  skim  among  the  park  trees 
and  shrubbery  in  a  course  parallel  to  her  route,  keep 
ing  her  well  in  sight. 

When  she  reached  the  corner  she  turned  her  head 
to  glance  at  the  motor  car,  and  then  passed  it,  con 
tinuing  on  across  the  street.  Sheltered  behind  a  con 
venient  standing  cab,  the  young  man  followed  her 
movements  closely  with  his  eyes.  Passing  down  the 
sidewalk  of  the  street  opposite  the  park,  she  entered 
the  restaurant  with  the  blazing  sign.  The  place  was 
one  of  those  frankly  glaring  establishments,  all  white 
paint  and  glass,  where  one  may  dine  cheaply  and  con 
spicuously.  The  girl  penetrated  the  restaurant  to 
some  retreat  at  its  rear,  whence  she  quickly  emerged 
without  her  hat  and  veil. 

The  cashier's  desk  was  well  to  the  front.  A  red- 
haired  girl  on  the  stool  climbed  down,  glancing  point- 


66  The  Voice  of  the  City 

«edly  at  the  clock  as  she  did  so.  The  girl  in  gray 
mounted  in  her  place. 

The  young  man  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets 
and  walked  slowly  back  along  the  sidewalk.  At  the 
corner  his  foot  struck  a  small,  paper-covered  volume 
lying  there,  sending  it  sliding  to  the  edge  of  the  turf. 
By  its  picturesque  cover  he  recognized  it  as  the  book 
the  girl  had  been  reading.  He  picked  it  up  carelessly, 
and  saw  that  its  title  was  <6New  Arabian  Nights," 
the  author  being  of  the  name  of  Stevenson.  He 
dropped  it  again  upon  the  grass,  and  lounged,  irreso 
lute,  for  a  minute.  Then  he  stepped  into  the  auto 
mobile,  reclined  upon  the  cushions,  and  said  two  words 
to  the  chauffeur: 

"Club,  Henri" 


A  COMEDY  IN  RUBBER 

may  hope,  in  spite  of  the  metaphorists,  to  avoid 
the  breath  of  the  deadly  upas  tree ;  one  may,  by  great 
good  fortune,  succeed  in  blacking  the  eye  of  the  basi 
lisk  ;  one  might  even  dodge  the  attentions  of  Cerberus 
and  Argus,  but  no  man,  alive  or  dead,  can  escape  the 
gaze  of  the  Rubberer. 

New  York  is  the  Caoutchouc  City.  There  are 
many,  of  course,  who  go  their  ways,  making  money, 
without  turning  to  the  right  or  the  left,  but  there  is 
a  tribe  abroad  wonderfully  composed,  like  the  Mar 
tians,  solely  of  eyes  and  means  of  locomotion. 

These  devotees  of  curiosity  swarm,  like  flies,  in  a 
moment  in  a  struggling,  breathless  circle  about  the 
scene  of  an  unusual  occurrence.  If  a  workman  opens 
a  manhole,  if  a  street  car  runs  over  a  man  from 
North  Tarrytown,  if  a  little  boy  drops  an  egg  on  his 
way  home  from  the  grocery,  if  a  casual  house  or  two 
drops  into  the  subway,  if  a  lady  loses  a  nickel  through 
a  hole  in  the  lisle  thread,  if  the  police  drag  a  telephone 
and  a  racing  chart  forth  from  an  Ibsen  Society 
reading-room,  if  Senator  Depew  or  Mr.  Chuck 
Connors  walks  out  to  take  the  air  —  if  any  of  these 
incidents  or  accidents  takes  place,  you  will  see 

67 


68  The  Voice  of  the  City 

the  mad,  irresistible  rush  of  the  "rubber"  tribe  to 
the  spot. 

The  importance  of  the  event  does  not  count.  They 
gaze  with  equal  interest  and  absorption  at  a  chorus 
girl  or  at  a  man  painting  a  liver  pill  sign.  They 
will  form  as  deep  a  cordon  around  a  man  with  a  club- 
foot  as  they  will  around  a  balked  automobile.  They 
have  the  furor  rubbercndi.  The}'  are  optical  glut 
tons,  feasting  and  fattening  on  the  misfortunes  of 
their  fellow  beings.  They  gloat  and  pore  and  glare 
and  squint  and  stare  with  their  fishy  eyes  like  goggle- 
eyed  perch  at  the  hook  baited  with  calamity. 

It  would  seem  that  Cupid  would  find  these  ocular 
vampires  too  cold  game  for  his  calorific  shafts,  but 
have  we  not  yet  to  discover  an  immune  even  among 
the  Protozoa?  Yes,  beautiful  Romance  descended 
upon  two  of  this  tribe,  and  love  came  into  their 
hearts  as  they  crowded  about  the  prostrate  form 
of  a  man  who  had  been  run  over  by  A  brewery 
wagon. 

William  Pry  was  the  first  on  the  spot.  He  was  an 
expert  at  such  gatherings.  With  an  expression  of 
intense  happiness  on  his  features,  he  stood  over  the 
victim  of  the  accident,  listening  to  his  groans  as  if  to 
the  sweetest  music.  When  the  crowd  of  spectators 
had  swelled  to  a  closely  packed  circle  William  saw  a 
violent  commotion  in  the  crowd  opposite  him.  Men 
were  hurled  aside  like  ninepins  by  the  impact  of  some 


A  Comedy  in  Rubber  69 

moving  body  that  clove  them  like  the  rush  of  a  tor 
nado.  With  elbows,  umbrella,  hat-pin,  tongue,  and 
fingernails  doing  their  duty,  Violet  Seymour  forced 
her  way  through  the  mob  of  onlookers  to  the  first  row. 
Strong  men  who*  even  had  been  able  to  secure  a  seat 
on  the  5.30  Harlem  express  staggered  back  like  chil 
dren  as  she  bucked  centre.  Two  large  lady  specta 
tors  who  had  seen  the  Duke  of  Roxburgh  married  and 
had  often  blocked  traffic  on  Twenty-third  Street  fell 
back  into  the  second  row  with  ripped  shirt-waists  when 
Violet  had  finished  with  them.  William  Pry  loved  her 
at  first  sight. 

The  ambulance  removed  the  unconscious  agent  of 
Cupid.  William  and  Violet  remained  after  the  crowd 
had  dispersed.  They  were  true  Rubberers.  People 
who  leave  the  scene  of  an  accident  with  the  ambulance 
have  not  genuine  caoutchouc  in  the  cosmogony  of 
their  necks.  The  delicate,  fine  flavor  of  the  affair  is 
to  be  had  only  in  the  after-taste  —  in  gloating  over 
the  spot,  in  gazing  fixedly  at  the  houses  opposite,  in 
hovering  there  in  a  dream  more  exquisite  than  the 
opium-eater's  ecstasy.  William  Pry  and  Violet  Sey 
mour  were  connoisseurs  in  casualties.  They  knew 
how  to  extract  full  enjoyment  from  every  incident. 

Presently  they  looked  at  each  other.  Violet  had  a 
brown  birthmark  on  her  neck  as  large  as  a  silver 
half-dollar.  William  fixed  his  eyes  upon  it.  \Villiam 
Pry  had  inordinately  bowed  legs.  Violet  allowed  her 


70  The  Voice  of  the  City 

gaze  to  linger  unswervingly  upon  them.  Face  to  face 
they  stood  thus  for  moments,  each  staring  at  the 
other.  Etiquette  would  not  allow  them  to  speak ;  but 
in  the  Caoutchouc  City  it  is  permitted  to  gaze  with 
out  stint  at  the  trees  in  the  parks  and  at  the  physical 
blemishes  of  a  fellow  creature. 

At  length  with  a  sigh  they  parted.  But  Cupid  had 
been  the  driver  of  the  brewery  wagon,  and  the  wheel 
that  broke  a  leg  united  two  fond  hearts. 

The  next  meeting  of  the  hero  and  heroine  was  in 
front  of  a  board  fence  near  Broadway.  The  day 
had  been  a  disappointing  one.  There  had  been  no 
fights  on  the  street,  children  had  kept  from  under  the 
wheels  of  the  street  cars,  cripples  and  fat  men  in  negli 
gee  shirts  were  scarce ;  nobody  seemed  to  be  inclined  to 
slip  on  banana  peels  or  fall  down  with  heart  disease. 
Even  the  sport  from  Kokomo,  Ind.,  who  claims  to  be 
a  cousin  of  ex-Mayor  Low  and  scatters  nickels  from 
a  cab  window,  had  not  put  in  his  appearance.  There 
was  nothing  to  stare  at,  and  William  Pry  had  premo 
nitions  of  ennui. 

But  he  saw  a  large  crowd  scrambling  and  pushing 
excitedly  in  front  of  a  billboard.  Sprinting  for  it, 
he  knocked  down  an  old  woman  and  a  child  carrying 
a  bottle  of  milk,  and  fought  his  way  like  a  demon  into 
the  mass  of  spectators.  Already  in  the  inner  line 
stood  Violet  Seymour  with  one  sleeve  and  two  gold 
fillings  gone,  a  corset  steel  puncture  and  a  sprained 


A  Comedy  in  Rubber  71 

wrist,  but  happy.  She  was  looking  at  what  there  was 
to  see.  A  man  was  painting  upon  the  fence :  "Eat 
Bricklets  —  They  Fill  Your  Face." 

Violet  blushed  when  she  saw  William  Pry.  William 
jabbed  a  lady  in  a  black  silk  raglan  in  the  ribs,  kicked 
a  boy  in  the  shin,  hit  an  old  gentleman  on  the  left  ear 
and  managed  to  crowd  nearer  to  Violet.  They  stood 
for  an  hour  looking  at  the  man  paint  the  letters. 
Then  William's  love  could  be  repressed  no  longer. 
He  touched  her  on  the  arm. 

"Come  with  me,"  he  said.  "I  know  where  there  is 
a  bootblack  without  an  Adam's  apple." 

She  looked  up  at  him  shyly,  yet  with  unmistakable 
love  transfiguring  her  countenance. 

"And  you  have  saved  it  for  me?"  she  asked, 
trembling  with  the  first  dim  ecstasy  of  a  woman  be 
loved. 

Together  they  hurried  to  the  bootblack's  stand. 
An  hour  they  spent  there  gazing  at  the  malformed 
youth. 

A  window-cleaner  fell  from  the  fifth  story  to  the 
sidewalk  beside  them.  As  the  ambulance  came  clang 
ing  up  William  pressed  her  hand  joyously.  "Four 
ribs  at  least  and  a  compound  fracture,"  he  whispered, 
swiftly.  "You  are  not  sorry  that  you  met  me,  are 
;you,  dearest?" 

"Me?"  said  Violet,  returning  the  pressure.  "Sure 
not.  I  could  stand  all  day  rubbering  with  you." 


72  The  Voice  of  the  City 

The  climax  of  the  romance  occurred  a  few  days 
later.  Perhaps  the  reader  will  remember  the  intense 
excitement  into  which  the  city  was  thrown  when  Eliza 
Jane,  a  colored  woman,  was  served  with  a  subpoena. 
The  Rubber  Tribe  encamped  on  the  spot.  With  his 
own  hands  William  Pry  placed  a  board  upon  two  beer 
kegs  in  the  street  opposite  Eliza  Jane's  residence. 
He  arid  Violet  sat  there  for  three  days  and  nights. 
Then  it  occurred  to  a  detective  to  open  the  door  and 
serve  the  subpoena.  He  sent  for  a  kinetoscope  and 
did  so. 

Two  souls  with  such  congenial  tastes  could  not  long 
remain  apart.  As  a  policeman  drove  them  away  with 
his  night  stick  that  evening  they  plighted  their  troth. 
The  seeds  of  love  had  been  well  sown,  and  had  grown 
up,  hardy  and  vigorous,  into  a  —  let  us  call  it  a 
rubber  plant. 

The  wedding  of  William  Pry  and  Violet  Seymour 
was  set  for  June  10.  The  Big  Church  in  the  Middle 
of  the  Block  was  banked  high  with  flowers.  The 
populous  tribe  of  Ilubberers  the  world  over  is  ram 
pant  over  weddings.  They  are  the  pessimists  of  the 
pews.  They  are  the  guyers  of  the  groom  and  the 
banterers  of  the  bride.  They  come  to  laugh  at  your 
marriage,  and  should  you  escape  from  Hymen's  tower 
on  the  back  of  death's  pale  steed  they  will  come  to  the 
funeral  and  sit  in  the  same  pew  and  cry  over  your 
luck.  Rubber  will  stretch. 


A  Comedy  in  Rubber  73 

The  church  was  lighted.  A  grosgrain  carpet  lay 
over  the  asphalt  to  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk.  JJ rides- 
maids  were  patting  one  another's  sashes  awry  and 
speaking  of  the  Bride's  freckles.  Coachmen  tied 
white  ribbons  on  their  whips  and  bewailed  the  space 
of  time  between  drinks.  The  minister  was  musing 
over  his  possible  fee,  essaying  conjecture  whether  it 
would  suffice  to  purchase  a  new  broadcloth  suit  for 
lumself  and  a  photograph  of  Laura  Jane  Libbey  for 
his  wife.  Yea,  Cupid  was  in  the  air. 

And  outside  the  church,  oh,  my  brothers,  surged 
and  heaved  the  rank  and  file  of  the  tribe  of  Uubberers. 
In  two  bodies  they  were,  with  the  grosgrain  carpet 
and  cops  with  clubs  between.  They  crowded  like 
cattle,  the}7  fought,  they  pressed  and  surged  and 
swayed  and  trampled  one  another  to  see  a  bit  of  a 
girl  in  a  white  veil  acquire  license  to  go  through  a 
man's  pockets  while  he  sleeps. 

But  the  hour  for  the  wedding  came  and  went,  and 
the  bride  and  bridegroom  came  not.  And  impatience 
gave  way  to  alarm  and  alarm  brought  about  search, 
and  they  were  not  found.  And  then  two  big  police 
men  took  a  hand  and  dragged  out  of  the  furious  mob 
of  onlookers  a  crushed  and  trampled  thing,  with  a 
wedding  ring  in  its  vest  pocket  and  a  shredded  and 
hysterical  woman  beating  her  way  to  the  carpet's 
edge,  ragged,  bruised  and  obstreperous. 

William  Pry   and   Violet   Seymour,   creatures  of 


74  The  Voice  of  the  City 

habit,  had  joined  in  the  seething  game  of  the  specta 
tors,  unable  to  resist  the  overwhelming  desire  to  gaze 
upon  themselves  entering,  as  bride  and  bridegroom, 
the  rose-decked  church. 
Rubber  will  out. 


ONE  THOUSAND  DOLLARS 

ONE  thousand  dollars,"  repeated  Lawyer  Tolman, 
solemnly  and  severely,  "and  here  is  the  money." 

Young  Gillian  gave  a  decidedly  amused  laugh  as 
he  fingered  the  thin  package  of  new  fifty-dollar  notes. 

"It's  such  a  confoundedly  awkward  amount,"  he 
explained,  genially,  to  the  lawyer.  "If  it  had  been 
ten  thousand  a  fehow  might  wind  up  with  a  lot  of 
fireworks  and  do  himself  credit.  Even  fifty  dollars 
would  have  been  less  trouble." 

"You  heard  the  reading  of  your  uncle's  will,"  con 
tinued  Lawyer  Tolman,  professionally  dry  in  his 
tones.  "I  do  not  know  if  you  paid  much  attention 
to  its  details.  I  must  remind  you  of  one.  You  are 
required  to  render  to  us  an  account  of  the  manner  of 
expenditure  of  this  $1,000  as  soon  as  you  have  dis 
posed  of  it.  The  will  stipulates  that.  I  trust  that 
you  will  so  far  comply  with  the  late  Mr.  Gillian's 
wishes." 

"You  may  depend  upon  it,"  said  the  young  man, 
politely,  "in  spite  of  the  extra  expense  it  will  entail. 
I  may  have  to  engage  a  secretary.  I  was  never  good 
at  accounts." 

Gillian  went  to  his  club.  There  he  hunted  out  one 
whom  he  called  Old  Bryson. 

75 


76  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Old  Bryson  was  calm  and  forty  and  sequestered. 
He  was  in  a  corner  reading  a  book,  and  when  he  saw 
Gillian  approaching  he  sighed,  laid  down  his  book  and 
took  off  his  glasses. 

"Old  Bryson,  wake  up,"  said  Gillian.  "I've  a 
funny  story  to  tell  you." 

"I  wish  you  would  tell  it  to  some  one  in  the  billiard 
room,"  said  Old  Bryson.  "You  know  how  I  hate  your 
stories." 

"This  is  a  better  one  than  usual,"  said  Gillian, 
rolling  a  cigarette;  "and  I'm  glad  to  tell  it  to  you. 
It's  too  sad  and  funny  to  go  with  the  rattling  of 
billiard  balls.  I've  just  come  from  my  late  uncle's 
firm  of  legal  corsairs.  He  leaves  me  an  even  thou 
sand  dollars.  Now,  what  can  a  man  possibly  do  with 
a  thousand  dollars?" 

"I  thought,"  said  Old  Bryson,  showing  as  much 
interest  as  a  bee  shows  in  a  vinegar  cruet,  "that  the 
late  Septimus  Gillian  was  worth  something  like  half 
a  million." 

"He  was,"  assented  Gillian,  joyously,  "and  that's 
where  the  joke  comes  in.  He's  left  his  whole  cargo  of 
doubloons  to  a  microbe.  That  is,  part  of  it  goes  to 
the  man  who  invents  a  new  bacillus  and  the  rest  to 
establish  a  hospital  for  doing  away  with  it  again. 
There  are  one  or  two  trifling  bequests  on  the  side. 
The  butler  and  the  housekeeper  get  a  seal  ring  and 
$10  each.  His  nephew  gets  $1,000." 


One  Thousand  Dollars  77 

"You've  always  had  plenty  of  money  to  spend," 
observed  Old  Bryson. 

"Tons,"  said  Gillian.  "Uncle  was  the  fairy  god 
mother  as  far  as  an  allowance  was  concerned." 

"Any  other  heirs?"  asked  Old  Bryson. 

"None."  Gillian  frowned  at  his  cigarette  and 
kicked  the  upholstered  leather  of  a  divan  uneasily. 
"There  is  a  Miss  Hayden,  a  ward  of  my  uncle,  who 
lived  in  his  house.  She's  a  quiet  thing  —  musical  — 
the  daughter  of  somebody  who  was  unlucky  enough  to 
be  his  friend.  I  forgot  to  say  that  she  was  in  on  the 
seal  ring  and  $10  joke,  too.  I  wish  I  had  been. 
Then  I  could  have  had  two  bottles  of  brut,  tipped  the 
waiter  with  the  ring  and  had  the  whole  business  off 
my  hands.  Don't  be  superior  and  insulting,  Old  Bry 
son  —  tell  me  what  a  fellow  can  do  with  a  thousand 
dollars." 

Old  Bryson  rubbed  his  glasses  and  smiled.  And 
when  Old  Bryson  smiled,  Gillian  knew  that  he  in 
tended  to  be  more  offensive  than  ever. 

"A  thousand  dollars,"  he  said,  "means  much  or 
little.  One  man  may  buy  a  happy  home  with  it  and 
laugh  at  Rockefeller.  Another  could  send  his  wife 
South  with  it  and  save  her  life.  A  thousand  dollars 
would  buy  pure  milk  for  one  hundred  babies  during 
June,  July,  and  August  and  save  fifty  of  their  lives. 
You  could  count  upon  a  half  hour's  diversion  with  it 
at  faro  in  one  of  the  fortified  art  galleries.  It  would 


78  The  Voice  of  the  City 

furnish  an  education  to  an  ambitious  boy.  I  am  told 
that  a  genuine  Corot  was  secured  for  that  amount 
in  an  auction  room  yesterday.  You  could  move  to  a 
New  Hampshire  town  and  live  respectably  two  years 
on  it.  You  could  rent  Madison  Square  Garden  for 
one  evening  with  it,  and  lecture  your  audience,  if  you 
should  have  one,  on  the  precariousness  of  the  profes 
sion  of  heir  presumptive." 

"People  might  like  you,  Old  Bryson,"  said  Gillian, 
always  unruffled,  "if  you  wouldn't  moralize.  I  asked 
you  to  tell  me  what  I  could  do  with  a  thousand 
dollars." 

"You  ?"  said  Bryson,  with  a  gentle  laugh.  "Why, 
Bobby  Gillian,  there's  only  one  logical  thing  you 
could  do.  You  can  go  buy  Miss  Lotta  Lauriere  a 
diamond  pendant  with  the  money,  and  then  take  your 
self  off  to  Idaho  and  inflict  your  presence  upon  a 
ranch.  I  advise  a  sheep  ranch,  as  I  have  a  particular 
dislike  for  sheep." 

"Thanks,"  said  Gillian,  rising.  "I  thought  I 
could  depend  upon  you,  Old  Bryson.  You've  hit 
on  the  very  scheme.  I  wanted  to  chuck  the  money  in 
a  lump,  for  I've  got  to  turn  in  an  account  for  it,  and 
I  hate  itemizing." 

Gillian  phoned  for  a  cab  and  said  to  the  driver : 
"The  stage  entrance  of  the  Columbine  Theatre." 
Miss  Lotta  Lauriere  was  assisting  nature  with  a 
powder  puff,  almost  ready  for  her  call  at  a  crowded 


One  Thousand  Dollars  79 

matinee,  when  her  dresser  mentioned  the  name  of  Mr. 
GilJian. 

"Let  it  in,"  said  Miss  Lauriere.  "Now,  what  is  it, 
Bobby?  I'm  going  on  in  two  minutes." 

"Rabbit-foot  jour  right  ear  a  little,"  suggested 
Gillian,  critically.  "That's  better.  It  won't  take 
two  minutes  for  me.  What  do  you  say  to  a  little 
thing  in  the  pendant  line?  I  can  stand  three  ciphers 
with  a  figure  one  in  front  of  'em." 

"Oh,  just  as  you  say,"  carolled  Miss  Lauriere. 
"My  right  glove,  Adams.  Say,  Bobby,  did  you  see 
that  necklace  Delia  Stacey  had  on  the  other  night? 
Twenty-two  hundred  dollars  it  cost  at  Tiffany's. 
But,  of  course  —  pull  my  sash  a  little  to  the  left, 
Adams." 

"Miss  Lauriere  for  the  opening  chorus !"  cried  the 
call  boy  without. 

GiDian  strolled  out  to  where  his  cab  was  waiting. 

"What  would  you  do  with  a  thousand  dollars  if 
you  had  it  ?"  he  asked  the  driver. 

"Open  a  s'loon,"  said  the  cabby,  promptly  and 
huskily.  "I  know  a  place  I  could  take  money  in  with 
both  hands.  It's  a  four-story  brick  on  a  corner. 
I've  got  it  figured  out.  Second  story  —  Chinks  and 
chop  suey ;  third  floor  —  manicures  and  foreign  mis 
sions  ;  fourth  floor  —  poolroom.  If  }7ou  was  think 
ing  of  putting  up  the  cap " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Gillian,  "I  merely  asked  from  curi- 


80  The  Voice  of  the  City 

osity.  I  take  you  by  the  hour.  Drive  till  I  tell  you 
to  stop." 

Eight  blocks  down  Broadway  Gillian  poked  up  the 
trap  with  his  cane  and  got  out.  A  blind  man  sat 
upon  a  stool  on  the  sidewalk  selling  pencils.  Gillian 
went  out  and  stood  before  him. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "but  would  you  mind  tell 
ing  me  what  you  would  do  if  you  had  a  thousand 
dollars?" 

"You  got  out  of  that  cab  that  just  drove  up,  didn't 
you?"  asked  the  blind  man. 

"I  did,"  said  Gillian. 

"I  guess  you  are  all  right,"  said  the  pencil  dealer, 
"to  ride  in  a  cab  by  daylight.  Take  a  look  at  that, 
if  you  like." 

He  drew  a  small  book  from  his  coat  pocket  and 
held  it  out.  Gillian  opened  it  and  saw  that  it  was  a 
bank  deposit  book.  It  showed  a  balance  of  $1,785  to 
the  blind  man's  credit.  ' 

Gillian  returned  the  book  and  got  into  the  cab. 

"I  forgot  something,"  he  said.  "You  may  drive  to 
the  law  offices  of  Tolman  &  Sharp,  at  Broad 
way." 

Lawyer  Tolman  looked  at  him  hostilely  and  inquir 
ingly  through  his  gold-rimmed  glasses. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Gillian,  cheerfully, 
"but  may  I  ask  you  a  question?  It  is  not  an  im 
pertinent  one,  I  hope.  Was  Miss  Hayden  left  any- 


One  Thousand  Dollars  81 

thing  by  my  uncle's  will  besides  the  ring  and  the 
$10  r" 

"Nothing,"  said  Mr.  Tolman. 

"I  thank  you  very  much,  sir,"  said  Gillian,  and 
out  he  went  to  his  cab.  He  gave  'the  driver  the  ad 
dress  of  his  late  uncle's  home. 

Miss  Hayden  was  writing  letters  in  the  library. 
She  was  small  and  slender  and  clothed  in  black.  But 
you  would  have  noticed  her  eyes.  Gillian  drifted 
in  with  his  air  of  regarding  the  world  as  incon 
sequent. 

"I've  just  come  from  old  Tolman's,"  he  explained. 
"They've  been  going  over  the  papers  down  there. 
They  found  a" —  Gillian  searched  his  memory  for  a 
legal  term  — "they  found  an  amendment  or  a  post 
script  or  something  to  the  will.  It  seemed  that  the 
old  boy  loosened  up  a  little  on  second  thoughts  and 
willed  you  a  thousand  dollars.  I  was  driving  up  this 
way  and  Tolman  asked  me  to  bring  you  the  money. 
Here  it  is.  You'd  better  count  it  to  see  if  it's  right." 
Gillian  laid  the  money  beside  her  hand  on  the  desk. 

Miss  Hayden  turned  white.  "Oh!"  she  said,  and 
again  "Oh !" 

Gillian  half  turned  and  looked  out  the  window. 

"I  suppose,  of  course,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice, 
"that  you  know  I  love  you." 

"I  am  sorry,"  said  Miss  Hayden,  taking  up  her 
money. 


82  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"There  is  no  use?"  asked  Gillian,  almost  light- 
heartedly. 

"I  am  sorry,"  she  said  again. 

"May  I  write  a  note?"  asked  Gillian,  with  a  smile. 
He  seated  himself  at  the  big  library  table.  She  sup 
plied  him  with  paper  and  pen,  and  then  went  back  to 
her  secretaire. 

Gillian  made  out  his  account  of  his  expenditure  of 
the  thousand  dollars  in  these  words : 

"Paid  by  the  black  sheep,  Robert  Gillian,  $1,000 
on  account  of  the  eternal  happiness,  owed  by  Heaven 
to  the  best  and  dearest  woman  on  earth." 

Gillian  slipped  his  writing  into  an  envelope,  bowed 
and  went  his  way. 

His  cab  stopped  again  at  the  offices  of  Tolman  £ 
Sharp. 

"I  have  expended  the  thousand  dollars,"  he  said, 
cheerily,  to  Tolman  of  the  gold  glasses,  "and  I  have 
corne  to  render  account  of  it,  as  I  agreed.  There  is 
quite  a  feeling  of  summer  in  the  air  —  do  you  not 
think  so,  Mr.  Tolrnan?"  He  tossed  a  white  envelope 
on  the  lawyer's  table.  "You  will  find  there  a  memo 
randum,  sir,  of  the  modus  operandi  of  the  vanishing 
of  the  dollars." 

Without  touching  the  envelope,  Mr.  Tolman  went 
to  a  door  and  called  his  partner,  Sharp.  Together 
they  explored  the  caverns  of  an  immense  safe.  Forth 
they  dragged  as  trophy  of  their  search  a  big  envelope 


One  Thousand  Dollars  83 

sealed  with  wax.  This  they  forcibly  invaded,  and 
wagged  their  venerable  heads  together  over  its  con 
tents.  Then  Tolinan  became  spokesman. 

"Mr.  Gillian,"  he  said,  formally,  "there  was  a 
codicil  to  your  uncle's  will.  It  was  intrusted  to  us 
privately,  with  instructions  that  it  be  not  opened 
until  you  had  furnished  us  with  a  full  account  of  your 
handling  of  the  $1,000  bequest  in  the  will.  As  you 
have  fulfilled  the  conditions,  my  partner  and  I  have 
read  the  codicil.  I  do  not  wish  to  encumber  your 
understanding  with  its  legal  phraseology,  but  I  will 

•*  acquaint  you  with  the  spirit  of  its  contents. 

"In  the  event  that  your  disposition  of  the  $1,000 
demonstrates  that  you  possess  any  of  the  qualifica 
tions  that  deserve  reward,  much  benefit  will 
accrue  to  you.  Mr.  Sharp  and  I  are  named 
as  the  judges,  and  I  assure  you  that  we  will  do  our 
duty  strictly  according  to  justice  —  with  liberality. 
We  are  not  at  all  unfavorably  disposed  toward  you,  * 
Mr.  Gillian.  But  let  us  return  to  the  letter  of  the 
codicil.  If  your  disposal  of  the  money  in  question 
has  been  prudent,  wise,  or  unselfish,  it  is  in  our  power 
to  hand  you  over  bonds  to  the  value  of  $50,000,  which 
have  been  placed  in  our  hands  for  that  purpose.  But 
if — as  our  client,  the  late  Mr.  Gillian,  explicitly 

jprovides  —  you  have  used  this  money  as  you  have 
used  money  in  the  past  —  I  quote  the  late  Mr.  Gillian 
—  in  reprehensible  dissipation  among  disreputable 


84  The  Voice  of  the  City 

associates  —  the  $50,000  is  to  be  paid  to  Miriam 
Hay  den,  ward  of  the  late  Mr.  Gillian,  without  delay. 
Now,  Mr.  Gillian,  Mr.  Sharp  and  I  will  examine  your 
account  in  regard  to  the  $1,000.  You  submit  it  in 
writing,  I  believe.  I  hope  you  will  repose  confidence 
in  our  decision." 

Mr.  Tolman  reached  for  the  envelope.  Gillian 
was  a  little  the  quicker  in  taking  it  up.  He  tore  the 
account  and  its  cover  leisurely  into  strips  and 
dropped  them  into  his  pocket. 

"It's  all  right,"  he  said,  smilingly.  "There  isn't  a 
bit  of  need  to  bother  you  with  this.  I  don't  suppose 
you'd  understand  these  itemized  bets,  anyway.  I 
lost  the  thousand  dollars  on  the  races.  Good-day  to 
you,  gentlemen." 

Tolman  £  Sharp  shook  their  heads  mournfully  at 
each  other  when  Gillian  left,  for  they  heard  him  whis 
tling  gayly  in  the  hallway  as  he  waited  for  tha  ele 
vator. 


THE  DEFEAT  OF  THE  CITY 

ROBERT  WALMSLEY'S  descent  upon  the 

resulted  in  a  Kilkenny  struggle.     He  came  out  of-  the\ 
fight  victor  by  a  fortune  and  a  reputation.     On  the 
other  hand,  he  was  swallowed  up  by  the  city.     The 
city  gave  him  what  he  demanded  and  then  branded 
him  with  its  brand.     It  remodelled,  cut,  trimmed  and  / 
stamped  him  to  the  pattern  it  approves.     It  opened) 
its  social  gates  to  him  and  shut  him  in  on  a  close- 
cropped,  formal  lawn  with  the  select  herd  of  rumi 
nants.     In    dress,    habits,    manners,    provincialism, 
routine  and  narrowness  he  acquired  that  charming  in-' 
solence,  that  irritating  completeness,  that  sophisti 
cated  crassness,  that  overbalanced  poise  that  makes-, 
the  Manhattan  gentleman  so  delightfully  small  in 
his  greatness. 

One  of  the  up-state  rural  counties  pointed  with 
pride  to  the  successful  young  metropolitan  lawyer  as 
a  product  of  its  soil.  Six  years  earlier  this  county 
had  removed  the  wheat  straw  from  between  its  huckle 
berry-stained  teeth  and  emitted  a  derisive  and  bucolic 
laugh  as  old  man  Walmsley's  freckle-faced  "Bob" 
abandoned  the  certain  three-per-diem  meals  of  the 
one-horse  farm  for  the  discontinuous  quick  lunch 
counters  of  the  three-ringed  metropolis.  At  the  end 

85 


86  The  Voice  of  the  City 

of  the  six  years  no  murder  trial,  coaching  party,  au 
tomobile  accident  or  cotillion  was  complete  in  which 
the  name  of  Robert  Wahnsley  did  not  figure.  Tailors 
waylaid  him  in  the  street  to  get  a  new  wrinkle  from 
the  cut  of  his  un wrinkled  trousers.  Hyphenated  fel 
lows  in  the  clubs  and  members  of  the  oldest  sub 
poenaed  families  were  glad  to  clap  him  on  the  back  and 
allow  him  three  letters  of  his  name. 

But  the  Matterhorn  of  Robert  Walmslcy's  success 
was  not  scaled  until  he  married  Alicia  Van  Der  Pool. 
I  cite  the  Matterhorn,  for  just  so  high  and  cool  and 
white  and  inaccessible  was  this  daughter  of  the  old 
burghers.  The  social  Alps  that  ranged  about  her  — 
over  whose  bleak  passes  a  thousand  climbers  struggled 
—  reached  only  to  her  knees.  She  towered  in  her  own 
atmosphere,  serene,  chaste,  prideful,  wading  in  no 
fountains,  dining  no  monkeys,  breeding  no  dogs  for 
bench  shows.  She  was  a  Van  Der  Pool.  Fountains 
were  made  to  play  for  her ;  monkeys  were  made  for 
other  people's  ancestors ;  dogs,  she  understood,  were 
created  to  be  companions  of  blind  persons  and  objec 
tionable  characters  who  smoked  pipes. 

This  was  the  Matterhorn  that  Robert  Walmsley 
accomplished.  If  he  found,  with  the  good  poet  with 
the  game  foot  and  artificially  curled  hair,  that  he  who 
ascends  to  mountain  tops  will  find  the  loftiest  peaks 
most  wrapped  in  clouds  and  snow,  he  concealed  his 
chilblains  beneath  a  brave  and  smiling  exterior.  He 


The  Defeat  of  the  City  87 

was  a  lucky  man  and  knew  it,  even  though  he  were 
imitating  the  Spartan  boy  with  an  ice-cream  freezer 
beneath  his  doublet  frappeeing  the  region  of  his 
heart. 

After  a  brief  wedding  tour  abroad,  the  couple  re 
turned  to  create  a  decided  ripple  in  the  calm  cistern 
(so  placid  and  cool  and  sunless  it  is)  of  the  best  so 
ciety.  They  entertained  at  their  red  brick  mauso 
leum  of  ancient  greatness  in  an  old  square  that  is 
a  cemetery  of  crumbled  glory.  And  Robert  Walms- 
ley  was  proud  of  his  wife ;  although  while  one  of 
his  hands  shook  his  guests'  the  other  held  tightly 
to  his  alpenstock  and  thermometer. 

One  day  Alicia  found  a  letter  written  to  Robert  by 
his  mother.  It  was  an  unerudite  letter,  full  of  crops 
and  motherly  love  and  farm  notes.  It  chronicled  the 
health  of  the  pig  and  the  recent  red  calf,  and  asked 
concerning  Robert's  in  return.  It  was  a  letter  directj 
from  the  soil,  straight  from  home,  full  of  biographies! 
of  bees,  tales  of  turnips,  paeans  of  new-laid  eggs, 
neglected  parents  and  the  slump  in  dried  apples. 

"Why  have  I  not  been  shown  your  mother's  let 
ters?"  asked  Alicia.  There  was  always  something  in 
her  voice  that  made  you  think  of  lorgnettes,  of  ac 
counts  at  Tiffany's,  of  sledges  smoothly  gliding  on 
the  trail  from  Dawson  to  Forty  Mile,  of  the  tinkling 
of  pendant  prisms  on  your  grandmothers'  chandeliers, 
of  snow  lying  on  a  convent  roof ;  of  a  police  sergeant 


88  The  Voice  of  the  City 

refusing  bail.  "Your  mother,"  continued  Alicia, 
"invites  us  to  make  a  visit  to  the  farm.  I  have 
never  seen  a  farm.  We  will  go  there  for  a  week  or 
two,  Robert." 

"We  will,"  said  Robert,  with  the  grand  air  of  an 
associate  Supreme  Justice  concurring  in  an  opinion. 
"I  did  not  lay  the  invitation  before  you  because  I 
thought  you  would  not  care  to  go.  I  am  much 
pleased  at  your  decision." 

"I  will  write  to  her  myself,"  answered  Alicia,  with 
a  faint  foreshadowing  of  enthusiasm.  "Felice  shall 
pack  my  trunks  at  once.  Seven,  I  think,  will  be 
enough.  I  do  not  suppose  that  your  mother  entertains 
a  great  deal.  Does  she  give  many  house  parties?" 

Robert  arose,  and  as  attorney  for  rural  places  filed 
a  demurrer  against  six  of  the  seven  trunks.  He  en 
deavored  to  define,  picture,  elucidate,  set  forth  and 
describe  a  farm.  His  own  words  sounded  strange  in 
his  cars.  He  had  not  realized  how  thoroughly  urbsi- 
dized  he  had  become. 

A  week  passed  and  found  them  landed  at  the  little 
country  station  five  hours  out  from  the  city.  A  grin 
ning,  stentorian,  sarcastic  youth  driving  a  mule  to  a 
spring  wagon  hailed  Robert  savagely. 

"Hallo,  Mr.  Walmsley.  Found  your  way  back  at 
last,  have  you?  Sorry  I  couldn't  bring  in  the  auto 
mobile  for  you,  but  dad's  bull-tonguing  the  ten-acre 
clover  patch  with  it  to-day.  Guess  you'll  excuse  my 


The  Defeat  of  the  City  89 

not  wearing  a  dress  suit  over  to  meet  you  —  it  ain't 
six  o'clock  yet,  you  know." 

"I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Tom,"  said  Robert,  grasp 
ing  his  brother's  hand.  "Yes,  I've  found  my  way  at 
last.  You've  a  right  to  say  'at  last.'  It's  been  over 
two  years  since  the  last  time.  But  it  will  bo  oftener 
after  this,  my  boy." 

Alicia,  cool  in  the  summer  heat  as  an  Arctic  wraith, 
white  as  a  Norse  snow  maiden  in  her  flimsy  muslin  and 
fluttering  hice  parasol,  came  round  the  corner  of  the 
station  ;  and  Tom  was  stripped  of  his  assurance.  He 
became  chiefly  eyesight  clothed  in  blue  jeans,  and  on 
the  homeward  drive  to  the  mule  alone  did  he  confide 
in  language  the  inwardness  of  his  thoughts. 

They  drove  homeward.  The  low  sun  dropped  a 
spendthrift  flood  of  gold  upon  the  fortunate  fields  of 
wheat.  The  cities  were  far  away.  The  road  lay  curl 
ing  around  wood  and  dale  and  hill  like  a  ribbon  lost 
from  the  robe  of  careless  summer.  The  wind  followed 
like  a  whinnying  colt  in  the  track  of  Phoebus's  steeds. 

By  and  by  the  farmhouse  peeped  gray  out  of  its 
faithful  grove;  they  saw  the  long  lane  with  its  convoy 
of  walnut  trees  running  from  the  road  to  the  house ; 
they  smelk-d  the  wild  rose  and  the  breath  of  cool, 
damp  willows  in  the  creek's  bed.  And  then  in  unison 
all  the  voices  of  the  soil  began  a  chant  addressed  to 
the  soul  of  Robert  Walmslcy.  )  Out  of  the  tilted  aisles 
of  the  dim  wood  they  came  hollowly ;  they  chirped  and 


90  The  Voice  of  the  City 

buzzed  from  the  parched  grass ;  they  trilled  from  the 
ripples  of  the  creek  ford ;  they  floated  up  in  clear 
Pan's  pipe  notes  from  the  dimming  meadows :  the 
vvhippoorwills  joined  in  as  they  pursued  midges  in  the 
upper  air;  slow-going  cow-bells  struck  out  a  homely 
accompaniment  —  and  this  was  what  each  one  said: 
"You've  found  your  way  back  at  last,  have  you?" 

The  old  voices  of  the  soil  spoke  to  him.  Leaf  and 
bud  and  blossom  conversed  with  him  in  the  old  vocabu 
lary  of  his  careless  youth  —  the  inanimate  things,  the 
familiar  stones  and  rails,  the  gates  and  furrows  and 
roofs  and  turns  of  the  road  had  an  eloquence,  too,  anJ 
a  power  in  the  transformation.  The  country  had 
smiled  and  he  had  felt  the  breath  of  it,  and  his  heart" 
was  drawn  as  if  in  a  moment  back  to  his  old  love. 
The  city  was  far  away. 

This  rural  atavism,  then,  seized  Robert  Walusley  j 
and  possessed  him.     A  queer  thing  he  noticed  ir  con 
nection  with  it  was  that  Alicia,  sitting  at  his  sick1, 
suddenly  seemed  to  him  a  stranger.     She  did  not  be 
long  to  this  recurrent  phase.     Never  before  had  she 
seemed  so  remote,  so  colorless  and  high  —  so  intan 
gible  and  unreal.     And  yet  he  had  never  admired  her 
more  than  when  she  sat  there  by  him  in  the  rickety 
spring  wagon,  chiming  no  more  with  his  mood  and'( 
with  her  environment   than  the  Matterhorn  chimes .: 
with  a  peasant's  cabbage  garden. 

"That  night  when  the  greetings  and  the  supper  were 


The  Defeat  of  the  City  91 

over,  the  entire  family,  including  Buff,  the  yellow  dog, 
bestrewed  itself  upon  the  front  porch.  Alicia,  not 
haughty  but  silent,  sat  in  the  shadow  dressed  in  an 
exquisite  pale-gray  tea  gown.  Robert's  mother  dis 
coursed  to  her  happily  concerning  marmalade  and 
lumbago.  Tom  sat  on  the  top  step ;  Sisters  Millie J 
and  Pam  on  the  lowest  step  to  catch  the  lightning 
bugs.  Mother  had  the  willow  rocker.  Father  sat  in 
the  big  armchair  with  one  of  its  arms  gone.  Buff 
sprawled  in  the  middle  of  the  porch  in  everybody's 
way.  The  twilight  pixies  and  pucks  stole  forth  un 
seen  and  plunged  other  poignant  shafts  of  memory  , 
into  the  heart  of  Robert.  A  rural  madness  entered 
his  soul.  The  city  was  far  away. 

Father  sat  without  his  pipe,  writhing  in  his  heavy- 
boots,  a  sacrifice  to  rigid  courtesy.  Robert  shouted : 
"No.  you  don't !"  He  fetched  the  pipe  and  lit  it ;  he 
seized  the  old  gentleman's  boots  and  tore  them  off. 
The  last  one  slipped  suddenly,  and  Mr.  Robert 
Walmsley,  of  Washington  Square,  tumbled  off  the 
porch  backward  with  Buff  on  top  of  him,  howling 
fearfully.  Tom  laughed  sarcastically. 

Robert  tore  off  his  coat  and  vest  arid  hurled  them 
into  a  lilac  bush. 

"Come  out  here,  you  landlubber,"  he  cried  to  Tom, 
"and  I'll  put  grass  seed  on  your  back.     I  think  you 
called  me  a  'dude'  a  while  ago.     Come  along  and  cut  \ 
your  capers." 


92  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Tom  understood  the  invitation  and  accepted  it  with 
delight.  Three  times  they  wrestled  on  the  grass, 
"side  holds,"  even  as  the  giants  of  the  mat.  And 
twice  was  Tom  forced  to  bite  grass  at  the  hands  of 
the  distinguished  lawyer.  Dishevelled,  panting,  each 
still  hoasting  of  his  own  prowess,  they  stumbled  back 
to  the  porch.  Millie  cast  a  pert  reflection  upon  the 
qualities  of  a  city  brother.  In  an  instant  Robert  had 
secured  a  horrid  katydid  in  his  fingers  and  bore  down 
upon  her.  Screaming  wildly,  she  fled  up  the  lane, 
pursued  by  the  avenging  glass  of  form.  A  quarter 
of  a  mile  and  they  returned,  she  full  of  apology  to 
the  victorious  "dude."  The  rustic  mania  possessed* 
him  unabatedly. 

"I  can  do  up  a  cowpenful  of  you  slow  hayseeds," 
he  proclaimed,  vaingloriously.  "Bring  on  your  bull 
dogs,  your  hired  men  and  your  log-rollers." 

He  turned  handsprings  on  the  grass  that  prodded^ 
Tom  to  envious  sarcasm.     And  then,  with  a  whoop, 
he  clattered  to  the  rear  and  brought  back  Uncle  Ike,  \ 
a  battered  colored  retainer  of  the  family,  with  his 
banjo,  and  strewed  sand  on  the  porch  and  danced  j 
"Chicken    in   the   Bread   Tray"    and   did   buck-and- 
wing  wonders  for  half  an  hour  longer.     Incredibly  f 
wild  and  boisterous  things  he  did.      He  sang,  he  told 
stories  that  set  all  but  one  shrieking,  he  played  the 
yokel,  the  humorous  clodhopper ;  he  was  mad,  mad 
with  the  revival  of  the  old  life  in  his  blood. 


The  Defeat  of  the  City  93 

He  became  so  extravagant  that  once  his  mother 
sought  gently  to  reprove  him.  Then-Alicia  moved  as 
though  she  were  about  to  speak,  but  she  did  not. 
Through  it  all  she  sat  immovable,  a  slim,  white  spirit 
in  the  dusk  that  no  man  might  question  or  read. 

By  and  by  she  asked  permission  to  ascend  to  her 
room,  saying  that  she  was  tired.     On  her  way  she 
passed  Robert.     He  was  standing  in  the  door,  the 
figure  of  vulgar  comedy,  with  ruffled  hair,  reddened 
face  and  unpardonable  confusion  of  attire  —  no  trace \ 
there  of  the  immaculate  Robert  Walmsley,  the  courted  ! 
clubman  and  ornament  of  select  circles.     He  was  do 
ing  a  conjuring  trick  with  some  household  utensils, 
and  the  family,  now  won  over  to  him  without  excep 
tion,  was  beholding  him  with  worshipful  admiration. 

As  Alicia  passed  in  Robert  started  suddenly.  He 
had  forgotten  for  the  moment  that  she  was  present. 
Without  a  glance  at  him  she  went  on  upstairs. 

After  that  the  fun  grew  quiet.  An  hour  passed 
in  talk,  and  then  Robert  went  up  himself. 

She  was  standing  by  the  window  when  he  entered 
their  room.  She  was  still  clothed  as  when  they  were 
on  the  porch.  Outside  and  crowding  against  the 
window  was  a  giant  apple  tree,  full  blossomed. 

Robert  sighed  and  went  near  the  window.  He  was 
ready  to  meet  his  fate.  A  confessed  vulgarian,  he 
foresaw  the  verdict  of  justice  in  the  shape  of  that 
still,  whiteclad  form.  He  knew  the  rigid  lines  that  a 


94  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Van  Der  Pool  would  draw.     He  was  a  peasant  gam 
bolling  indecorously  in  the  valley,  and  the  pure,  cold, 
white,  unthavved  summit  of  the  Matterhorn  could  not 
but  frown  on  him.     He  had  been  unmasked  by  his! 
own  actions.     All  the  polish,  the  poise,  the  form  that! 
the  city  had  given  him  had  fallen  from  him  like  an] 
ill-fitting  mantle   at  the  first   breath   of   a   county 
breeze.     Dully  he  awaited  the  approaching  condem 
nation. 

"Robert,"  said  the  calm,  cool  voice  of  his  judge. 
"I  thought  I  married  a  gentleman." 

Yes,  it  was  coming.  And  yet,  in  the  face  of  it, 
Robert  Walmsley  was  eagerly  regarding  a  certain 
branch  of  the  apple  tree  upon  which  he  used  to  climb 
out  of  that  very  window.  He  believed  he  could  do  it 
now.  He  wondered  how  many  blossoms  there  were 
on  the  tree  —  ten  millions?  But  here  was  some  one 
speaking  again : 

"I  thought  I  married  a  gentleman,"  the  voice 
went  on,  "but " 

Why  had  she  come  and  was  standing  so  close  by 

his  side? 

> 

"But  I  find  that  I  have  married" — was  this  Alicia 
talking? — "something  better  —  a  man  —  Bob,  dear, 
kiss  me,  won't  you?" 

The  city  was  far  away. 


THE  SHOCKS  OF  DOOM 

1HERE  is  an  aristocracy  of  the  public  parks  and 
even  of  the  vagabonds  who  use  them  for  their  private 
apartments.  Vallance  felt  rather  than  knew  this, 
but  when  he  stepped  down  out  of  his  world  into 
chaos  his  feet  brought  him  directly  to  Madison 
Square. 

Raw  and  astringent  as  a  schoolgirl  —  of  the  old 
order  —  young  May  breathed  austerely  among  the 
budding  trees.  Vallance  buttoned  his  coat,  lighted 
his  last  cigarette  and  took  his  seat  upon  a  bench. 
For  three  minutes  he  mildly  regretted  the  last  hun 
dred  of  his  last  thousand  that  it  had  cost  him  when 
the  bicycle  cop  put  an  end  to  his  last  automobile  ride. 
Then  he  felt  in  every  pocket  and  found  not  a 
single  penny.  He  had  given  up  his  apartment  that 
morning.  His  furniture  had  gone  toward  certain 
debts.  His  clothes,  save  what  were  upon  him,  had 
descended  to  his  man-servant  for  back  wages.  As  he 
sat  there  was  not  in  the  whole  city  for  him  a  bed  or  a 
broiled  lobster  or  a  street-car  fare  or  a  carnation  for 
his  buttonhole  unless  he  should  obtain  them  by  spong 
ing  on  his  friends  or  by  false  pretenses.  Therefore 
he  had  chosen  the  park. 

95 


06  The  Voice  of  the  City 

And  all  this  was  because  an  uncle  had  disinherited 
him,  and  cut  down  his  allowance  from  liberality  to 
nothing.  And  all  that  was  because  his  nephew  had 
disobeyed  him  concerning  a  certain  girl,  who  comes 
not  into  this  story  —  therefore,  all  readers  who 
brush  their  hair  toward  its  roots  may  be  warned  to 
read  no  further.  There  was  another  nephew,  of  a 
different  branch,  who  had  once  been  the  prospective 
heir  and  favorite.  Being  without  grace  or  hope,  he 
had  long  ago  disappeared  in  the  mire.  Now  drag 
nets  were  out  for  him ;  he  was  to  be  rehabilitated  and 
restored.  And  so  Vallance  fell  grandly  as  Lucifer 
to  the  lowest  pit,  joining  the  tattered  ghosts  in  the 
little  park. 

Sitting  there,  he  leaned  far  back  on  the  hard  bench 
and  laughed  a  jet  of  cigarette  smoke  up  to  the  lowest 
tree  branches.  The  sudden  severing  of  all  his  life's 
ties  had  brought  him  a  free,  thrilling,  almost  joyous 
elation.  He  felt  precisely  the  sensation  of  the  aero 
naut  when  he  cuts  loose  his  parachute  and  lets  his 
balloon  drift  away. 

The  hour  was  nearly  ten.  Not  many  loungers 
were  on  the  benches.  The  park-dweller,  though  a 
stubborn  fighter  against  autumnal  coolness,  is  slow 
to  attack  the  advance  line  of  spring's  chilly  cohorts. 

Then  arose  one  from  a  seat  near  the  leaping  foun 
tain,  and  came  and  sat  himself  at  Vallance's  side. 
He  was  either  young  or  old;  cheap  lodging-houses 


The  Shocks  of  Doom  97 

had  flavored  him  mustily ;  razors  and  combs  had 
passed  him  by;  in  him  drink  had  been  bottled  and 
sealed  in  the  devil's  bond.  He  begged  a  match,  which 
is  the  form  of  introduction  among  park  benchers,  and 
then  he  began  to  talk. 

"You're  not  one  of  the  regulars,"  he  said  to  Val- 
lance.  "I  know  tailored  clothes  when  I  see  'em. 
You  just  stopped  for  a  moment  on  your  way  through 
the  park.  Don't  mind  my  talking  to  you  for  a  while? 
I've  got  to  be  with  somebody.  I'm  afraid  —  I'm 
afraid.  I've  told  two  or  three  of  those  bummers  over 
there  about  it.  They  think  I'm  crazy.  Say  —  let 
me  tell  you  —  all  I've  had  to  eat  to-day  was  a  couple 
of  bretzcls  and  an  apple.  To-morrow  I'll  stand  in 
line  to  inherit  three  millions ;  and  that  restaurant  you 
see  over  there  with  the  autos  around  it  will  be  too 
cheap  for  me  to  eat  in.  Don't  believe  it,  do  3^ou?" 

"Without  the  slightest  trouble,"  said  Vallance, 
with  a  laugh.  "I  lunched  there  yesterday.  To 
night  I  couldn't  buy  a  five-cent  cup  of  coffee." 

"You  don't  look  like  one  of  us.  Well,  I  guess  those 
things  happen.  I  used, to  be  a  high-flyer  myself  — 
some  years  ago.  What  knocked  you  out  of  the  game  ?" 

"I  — oh,  I  lost  my  job,"  said  Vallance. 

"It's  undiluted  Hades,  this  city,"  went  on  the 
other.  "One  day  you're  eating  from  china ;  the 
next  you  are  eating  in  China  —  a  chop-suey  joint. 
I've  had  more  than  my  share  of  hard  luck.  For  five 


98  The  Voice  of  the  City 

years  I've  been  little  better  than  a  panhandler.  I 
was  raised  up  to  live  expensively  and  do  nothing. 
Say  —  I  don't  mind  telling  you  —  I've  got  to  talk 
to  somebody,  you  see,  because  I'm  afraid  —  I'm 
afraid.  My  name's  Ide.  You  wouldn't  think  that 
old  Paulding,  one  of  the  millionaires  on  Riverside 
Drive,  was  my  uncle,  would  you?  Well,  he  is.  I 
lived  in  his  house  once,  and  had  all  the  money  I 
wanted.  Say,  haven't  you  got  the  price  of  a  couple 
of  drinks  about  you  —  er  —  what's  your  name " 

"Dawson,"  said  Vallance.  "No;  I'm  sorry  to  say 
that  I'm  all  in,  financially." 

"I've  been  living  for  a  week  in  a  coal  cellar  on 
Division  Street,"  went  on  Idc,  "with  a  crook  they 
called  'Blinky'  Morris.  I  didn't  have  anywhere  else 
to  go.  While  I  was  out  to-day  a  chap  with  some  pa 
pers  in  his  pocket  was  there,  asking  for  me.  I  didn't 
know  but  what  he  was  a  fly  cop,  so  I  didn't  go  around 
again  till  after  dark.  There  was  a  letter  there  he 
had  left  for  me.  Say  —  Dawson,  it  was  from  a  big 
downtown  lawyer,  Mead.  I've  seen  his  sign  on  Ann 
Street.  Paulding  wants  me  to  play  the  prodigal 
nephew  —  wants  me  to  come  back  and  be  his  heir 
again  and  blow  in  his  money.  I'm  to  call  at  the 
lawyer's  office  at  ten  to-morrow  and  step  into  my  old 
shoes  again  —  heir  to  three  million,  Dawson,  and 
$10,000  a  year  pocket  money.  And  —  I'm  afraid 
—  I'm  afraid." 


The  Shocks  of  Doom  99 

The  vagrant  leaped  to  his  feet  and  raised  both 
trembling  arms  above  his  head.  He  caught  his 
breath  and  moaned  hysterically. 

Vallance  seized  his  arm  and  forced  him  back  to  the 
bench. 

"Be  quiet !"  he  commanded,  with  something  like 
disgust  in  his  tones.  "One  would  think  you  had  lost 
a  fortune,  instead  of  being  about  to  acquire  one. 
Of  what  are  ;>Tou  afraid?" 

Ide  cowered  and  shivered  on  the  bench.  He  clung 
to  Vallance's  sleeve,  and  even  in  the  dim  glow  of  the 
Broadway  lights  the  latest  disinherited  one  could  see 
drops  on  the  other's  brow  wrung  out  by  some  strange 
terror. 

"Why,  I'm  afraid  something  will  happen  to  me  be 
fore  morning.  I  don't  know  what  —  something  to 
keep  me  from  coming  into  that  money.  I'm  afraid  a 
tree  will  fall  on  me  —  I'm  afraiu  a  cab  will  run  over 
me,  or  a  stone  drop  on  me  from  a  housetop,  or  some 
thing.  I  never  was  afraid  before.  I've  sat  in  this 
park  a  hundred  nights  as  cairn  as  a  graven  image 
without  knowing  where  my  breakfast  was  to  come 
from.  But  now  it's  different.  I  love  money,  Daw- 
son  —  I'm  happy  as  a  god  when  it's  trickling  through 
my  fingers,  and  people  are  bowing  to  me,  with  the 
music  and  the  flowers  and  fine  clothes  all  around.  As 
long  as  I  knew  I  was  out  of  the  game  I  didn't  mind. 
I  was  even  happy  sitting  here  ragged  and  hungry, 


100  The  Voice  of  the  City 

listening  to  the  fountain  jump  and  watching  the 
carriages  go  up  the  avenue.  But  it's  in  reach  of  my 
hand  again  now  —  almost  —  and  I  can't  stand  it  to 
wait  twelve  hours,  Dawson  —  I  can't  stand  it. 
There  are  fifty  things  that  could  happen  to  me  —  I 
could  go  blind  —  I  might  be  attacked  with  heart 
disease  —  the  world  might  come  to  an  end  before  I 
could " 

Ide  sprang  to  his  feet  again,  with  a  shriek.  Peo 
ple  stirred  on  the  benches  and  began  to  look.  Val- 
lance  took  his  arm. 

"Come  and  walk,"  he  said,  soothingly.  "And  try 
to  calm  yourself.  There  is  no  need  to  become  ex 
cited  or  alarmed.  Nothing  is  going  to  happen  to 
you.  One  night  is  like  another." 

"That's  right,"  said  Ide.  "Stay  with  me,  Daw- 
son —  that's  a  good  fellow.  Walk  around  with  me 
awhile.  I  never  went  to  pieces  like  this  before,  and 
I've  had  a  good  many  hard  knocks.  Do  you  think 
you  could  hustle  something  in  the  way  of  a  little 
lunch,  old  man?  I'm  afraid  my  nerve's  too  far  gone 
to  try  any  panhandling." 

Vallancc  led  his  companion  up  almost  deserted 
Fifth  Avenue,  and  then  westward  along  the  Thirties 
toward  Broadway.  "Wait  here  a  few  minutes,"  he 
said,  leaving  Ide  in  a  quiet  and  shadowed  spot.  He 
entered  a  familiar  hotel,  and  strolled  toward  the  bar 
quite  in  his  old  assured  way. 


The  Shocks  of  Doom  101 

"There's  a  poor  devil  outside,  Jimmy,"  he  said  to 
the  bartender,  "who  says  he's  hungry  and  looks  it. 
You  know  what  they  do  when  you  give  them  money. 
Fix  up  a  sandwich  or  two  for  him ;  and  I'll  see  that 
he  doesn't  throw  it  away." 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Vallance,"  said  the  bartender. 
"They  ain't  all  fakes.  Don't  like  to  see  anybody  go 
hungry." 

He  folded  a  liberal  supply  of  the  free  lunch  into  a 
napkin.  Vallance  went  with  it  and  joined  his  com 
panion.  Ide  pounced  upon  the  food  ravenously.  "I 
haven't  had  any  free  lunch  as  good  as  this  in  a 
year,"  he  said.  "Aren't  you  going  to  eat  any,  Daw- 
son?" 

"I'm  not  hungry  —  thanks,"  said  Vallance. 

"We'll  go  back  to  the  Square,"  said  Ide.  "The 
cops  won't  bother  us  there.  I'll  roll  up  the  rest  of 
this  ham  and  stuff  for  our  breakfast.  I  won't  eat 
any  more ;  I'm  afraid  I'll  get  sick.  Suppose  I'd  die 
of  cramps  or  something  to-night,  and  never  get  to 
touch  that  money  again!  It's  eleven  hours  yet  till 
time  to  see  that  lawyer.  You  won't  leave  me,  will 
you,  Dawson?  I'm  afraid  something  might  happen. 
You  haven't  any  place  to  go,  have  you?" 

"No,"  said  Vallance,  "nowhere  to-night.  I'll  have 
a  bench  with  you." 

"You  take  it  cool,"  said  Ide,  "if  you've  told  it  to 
me  straight.  I  should  think  a  man  put  on  the  bum 


102  The  Voice  of  the  City 

from  a  good  job  just  in  one  day  would  be  tearing 
his  hair." 

"I  believe  I've  already  remarked,"  said  Vallance, 
laughing,  "that  I  would  have  thought  that  a  man 
who  was  expecting  to  come  into  a  fortune  on  the 
next  day  would  be  feeling  pretty  easy  and  quiet." 

"It's  funny  business,"  philosophized  Ide,  "about 
the  way  people  take  things,  anyhow.  Here's  your 
bench,  Dawson,  right  next  to  mine.  The  light  don't 
shine  in  your  eyes  here.  Say,  Dawson,  I'll  get  the 
old  man  to  give  you  a  letter  to  somebody  about  a  job 
when  I  get  back  home.  You've  helped  me  a  lot  to 
night.  I  don't  believe  I  could  have  gone  through 
the  night  if  I  hadn't  struck  you." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Vallance.  "Do  you  lie  down 
or  sit  up  on  these  when  you  sleep?" 

For  hours  Vallance  gazed  almost  without  winking 
at  the  stars  through  the  branches  of  the  trees  and 
listened  to  the  sharp  slapping  of  horses'  hoofs  on  the 
sea  of  asphalt  to  the  south.  His  mind  was  active, 
but  his  feelings  were  dormant.  Every  emotion 
seemed  to  have  been  eradicated.  He  felt  no  regrets, 
no  fears,  no  pain  or  discomfort.  Even  when  he 
thought  of  the  girl,  it  was  as  of  an  inhabitant  of  one 
of  those  remote  stars  at  which  he  gazed.  He  re 
membered  the  absurd  antics  of  his  companion  and 
laughed  softly,  yet  without  a  feeling  of  mirth.  Soon 
the  daily  army  of  milk  wagons  made  of  the  city  a 


The  Shocks  of  Doom  103 

roaring  drum  to  which  they  marched.  Vallancc  fell 
asleep  on  his  comfortless  bench. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  the  next  day  the  two  stood  at  the 
door  of  Lawyer  Mead's  office  in  Ann  Street. 

Ide's  nerves  fluttered  worse  than  ever  when  the 
hour  approached;  and  Vallance  could  not  decide  to 
leave  him  a  possible  prey  to  the  dangers  he  dreaded. 

When  they  entered  the  office,  Lawyer  Mead  looked 
at  them  wonder ingly.  He  and  Vallance  were  old 
friends.  After  his  greeting,  he  turned  to  Ide,  who 
stood  with  white  face  and  trembling  limbs  before  the 
expected  crisis. 

"I  sent  a  second  letter  to  your  address  last  night, 
Mr.  Ide,"  he  said.  "I  learned  this  morning  that 
you  were  not  there  to  receive  it.  It  will  inform  you 
that  Mr.  Paulding  has  reconsidered  his  off'cr  to  take 
you  back  into  favor.  He  has  decided  not  to  do  so, 
and  desires  you  to  understand  that  no  change  will  be 
made  in  the  relations  existing  between  you  and 
him." 

Ide's  trembling  suddenly  ceased.  The  color  came 
back  to  his  face,  and  he  straightened  his  back.  His 
jaw  went  forward  half  an  inch,  and  a  gleam  came 
into  his  eye.  He  pushed  back  his  battered  hat  with 
one  hand,  and  extended  the  other,  with  levelled  fin 
gers,  toward  the  lawyer.  He  took  a  long  breath  and 
then  laughed  sardonically. 

"Tell  old  Paulding  he  may  go  to  the  devil,"  he 


104  The  Voice  of  the  City 

said,  loudly  and  clearly,  and  turned  and  walked  out 
of  the  office  with  a  firm  and  lively  step. 

Lawyer  Mead  turned  on  his  heel  to  Vallance  and 
smiled. 

"I  am  glad  you  came  in,"  he  said,  genially. 
"Your  uncle  wants  you  to  return  home  at  once.  He 
is  reconciled  to  the  situation  that  led  to  his  hasty 
action,  and  desires  to  say  that  all  will  be  as " 

"Hey,  Adams !"  cried  Lawyer  Mead,  breaking  his 
sentence,  and  calling  to  his  clerk.  "Bring  a  glass  of 
water  —  Mr.  Vallance  has  fainted." 


THE  PLUTONIAN  FIRE 

THERE  are  a  few  editor  men  with  whom  I  am  privi 
leged  to  come  in  contact.  It  has  not  been  long  since 
it  was  their  habit  to  come  in  contact  with  me.  There 
is  a  difference. 

They  tell  me  that  with  a  large  number  of  the 
manuscripts  that  are  submitted  to  them  come  advices 
(in  the  way  of  a  boost)  from  the  author  asseverating 
that  the  incidents  in  the  story  are  true.  The  des 
tination  of  such  contributions  depends  wholly  upon 
the  question  of  the  inclosure  of  stamps.  Some  are 
returned,  the  rest  are  thrown  on  the  floor  in  a  corner 
on  top  of  a  pair  of  gum  shoes,  an  overturned  statu 
ette  of  the  Winged  Victory,  and  a  pile  of  old  maga 
zines  containing  a  picture  of  the  editor  in  the  act 
of  reading  the  latest  copy  of  Le  Petit  Journal,  right 
side  up  —  you  can  tell  by  the  illustrations.  It  is 
only  a  legend  that  there  are  waste  baskets  in  editors' 
offices. 

Thus  is  truth  held  in  disrepute.  But  in  time  truth 
and  science  and  nature  will  adapt  themselves  to  art. 
Things  will  happen  logically,  and  the  villain  be  dis 
comfited  instead  of  being  elected  to  the  board  of 
directors.  But  in  the  meantime  fiction  must  not  only 

105 


106  The  Voice  of  the  City 

be  divorced  from  fact,  but  must  pay  alimony  and  be 
awarded  custody  of  the  press  despatches. 

This  preamble  is  to  warn  you  off  the  grade  cross 
ing  of  a  true  story.  Being  that,  it  shall  be  told 
simply,  with  conjunctions  substituted  for  adjectives 
wherever  possible,  and  whatever  evidences  of  style 
may  appear  in  it  shall  be  due  to  the  linotype  msfn. 
It  is  a  story  of  the  literary  life  in  a  great  city,  arid 
it  should  be  of  interest  to  every  author  within  a  $0- 
mile  radius  of  Gosport,  Ind.,  whose  desk  holds  a  MS. 
story  beginning  thus :  "While  the  cheers  following 
his  nomination  were  still  ringing  through  the  old 
court-house,  Harwood  broke  away  from  the  congrat 
ulating  handclasps  of  his  henchmen  and  hurried  to 
Judge  Creswell's  house  to  find  Ida." 

Pettit  came  up  out  of  Alabama  to  write  fiction. 
The  Southern  papers  had  printed  eight  of  his  stories 
under  an  editorial  caption  identifying  the  author  as 
the  son  of  "the  gallant  Major  Pettingill  Pettit,  our 
former  County  Attorney  and  hero  of  the  battle  of 
Lookout  Mountain." 

Pettit  was  a  rugged  fellow,  with  a  kind  of  shame 
faced  culture,  and  rny  good  friend.  His  father  kept 
a  general  store  in  a  little  town  called  Hosea.  Pettit 
had  been  raised  in  the  pine-woods  and  broom-sedge 
fields  adjacent  thereto.  He  had  in  his  gripsack  two 
manuscript  novels  of  the  adventures  in  Picardy  of 
one  Gaston  Laboulaye,  Vicompte  de  Montrepos,  in 


The  Plutonian  Fire  107 

the  year  1329.  That's  nothing.  We  all  do  that. 
And  some  day  when  we  make  a  hit  with  the  little 
sketch  about  a  newsy  and  his  lame  dog,  the  editor 
prints  the  other  one  for  us  —  or  "on  us,"  as  the  say 
ing  is  —  and  then  —  and  then  we  have  to  get  a  big 
valise  and  peddle  those  patent  air-draft  gas  burners. 
At  $1.25  everybody  should  have  'em. 

I  took  Pettit  to  the  red-brick  house  which  was  to 
appear  in  an  article  entitled  "Literary  Landmarks 
of  Old  New  York,"  some  day  when  we  got  through 
with  it.  He  engaged  a  room  there,  drawing  on  the 
general  store  for  his  expenses.  I  showed  New  York 
to  him,  and  he  did  not  mention  how  much  narrower 
Broadway  is  than  Lee  Avenue  in  Hosea.  This 
seemed  a  good  sign,  so  I  put  the  final  test. 

"Suppose  you  try  your  hand  at  a  descriptive  arti 
cle,"  I  suggested,  "giving  your  impressions  of  New 
York  as  seen  from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge.  The  fresh 
point  of  view,  the  — 

"Don't  be  a  fool,"  said  Pettit.  "Let's  go  have 
some  beer.  On  the  whole  I  rather  like  the  city." 

We  discovered  and  enjoyed  the  only  true  Bohemia. 
Every  da}'  and  night  we  repaired  to  oi.e  of  those 
palaces  of  marble  and  glass  and  tilework,  where  goes 
on  a  tremendous  and  sounding  epic  of  life.  Valhalla 
itself  could  not  be  more  glorious  and  sonorous.  The 
classic  marble  on  which  we  ate,  the  great,  light- 
flooded,  vitreous  front,  adorned  with  snow-white 


108  The  Voice  of  the  City 

scrolls ;  the  grand  Wagnerian  din  of  clanking  cups 
and  bowls,  the  flashing  staccato  of  brandishing  cut 
lery,  the  piercing  recitative  of  the  white-aproned 
grub-maidens  at  the  morgue-like  banquet  tables;  the 
recurrent  lied-motif  of  the  cash-register  —  it  was  a 
gigantic,  triumphant  welding  of  art  and  sound,  a 
deafening,  soul-uplifting  pageant  of  heroic  and  em 
blematic  life.  And  the  beans  were  only  ten  cents. 
We  wondered  why  our  fellow-artists  cared  to  dine  at 
sad  little  tables  in  their  so-called  Bohemian  restau 
rants  ;  and  we  shuddered  lest  they  should  seek  out  our 
resorts  and  make  them  conspicuous  with  their  pres 
ence. 

Pettit  wrote  many  stories,  which  the  editors  re 
turned  to  him.  He  wrote  love  stories,  a  thing  I  have 
always  kept  free  from,  holding  the  belief  that  the 
well-known  and  popular  sentiment  is  not  properly  a 
matter  for  publication,  but  something  to  be  privately 
handled  by  the  alienists  and  florists.  But  the  editors 
had  told  him  that  they  wanted  love  stories,  because 
they  said  the  women  read  them. 

Now,  the  editors  are  wrong  about  that,  of  course. 
Women  do  not  read  the  love  stories  in  the  magazines. 
They  read  the  poker-game  stories  and  the  recipes 
for  cucumber  lotion.  The  love  stories  are  read  by 
fat  cigar  drummers  and  little  ten-year-old  girls.  I 
am  not  criticising  the  judgment  of  editors.  They 
are  mostly  very  fine  men,  but  a  man  can  be  but  one 


The  Plutonian  Fire  109 

man,  with  individual  opinions  and  tastes.  I  knew 
two  associate  editors  of  a  magazine  who  were  won 
derfully  alike  in  almost  everything.  And  yet  one  of 
them  was  very  fond  of  Flaubert,  while  the  other  pre 
ferred  gin. 

Pettit  brought  me  his  returned  manuscripts,  and 
we  looked  them  over  together  to  find  out  why  they 
were  not  accepted.  They  seemed  to  me  pretty  fair 
stories,  written  in  a  good  style,  and  ended,  as  they 
should,  at  the  bottom  of  the  last  page. 

They  were  well  constructed  and  the  events  were 
marshalled  in  orderly  and  logical  sequence.  But  I 
thought  I  detected  a  lack  of  living  substance  —  it 
was  much  as  if  I  gazed  at  a  symmetrical  array  of 
presentable  clamshells  from  which  the  succulent  and 
vital  inhabitants  had  been  removed.  I  intimated  that 
the  author  might  do  well  to  get  better  acquainted  with 
his  theme. 

"You  sold  a  story  last  week,"  said  Pettit,  "about 
a  gun  fight  in  an  Arizona  mining  town  in  which  the 
hero  drew  his  Colt's  .45  and  shot  seven  bandits  as 
fast  as  they  came  in  the  door.  Now,  if  a  six-shooter 
could " 

"Oh,  well,"  said  I,  "that's  different.  Arizona  is 
a  long  way  from  New  York.  I  could  have  a  man 
stabbed  with  a  lariat  or  chased  by  a  pair  of  chap- 
arreras  if  I  wanted  to,  and  it  wouldn't  be  noticed 
until  the  usual  error-sharp  from  around  McAdams 


110  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Junction  isolates  the  erratum  and  writes  in  to  the 
papers  about  it.  But  you  are  up  against  another 
proposition.  This  thing  they  call  love  is  as  common 
around  New  York  as  it  is  in  Sheboygan  during  the 
young  onion  season.  It  may  be  mixed  here  with  a 
little  commercialism  —  they  read  Byron,  but  they 
look  up  Bradstreet's,  too,  while  they're  among  the 
B's,  and  Brigham  also  if  they  have  time  —  but  it's 
pretty  much  the  same  old  internal  disturbance  every 
where.  You  can  fool  an  editor  with  a  fake  picture 
of  a  cowboy  mounting  a  pony  with  his  left  hand  on 
the  saddle  horn,  but  you  can't  put  him  up  a  tree  with 
a  love  story.  So,  you've  got  to  fall  in  love  and  then 
write  the  real  thing." 

Pettit  did.  I  never  knew  whether  he  was  taking 
my  advice  or  whether  he  fell  an  accidental  victim.  •» 

There  was  a  girl  he  had  met  at  one  of  these  studio 
contrivances  —  a  glorious,  impudent,  lucid,  open- 
minded  girl  with  hair  the  color  of  Culmbacher,  and  a 
good-natured  way  of  despising  you.  She  was  a  New 
York  girl. 

Well  (as  the  narrative  style  permits  us  to  say  in 
frequently),  Pettit  went  to  pieces.  All  those  pains, 
those  lover's  doubts,  those  heart-burnings  and 
tremors  of  which  he  had  written  so  unconvincingly 
were  his.  Talk  about  Shylock's  pound  of  flesh! 
Twenty-five  pounds  Cupid  got  from  Pettit.  Which 
is  the  usurer? 


The  Plutonian  Fire  111 

One  night  Pettit  came  to  my  room  exalted.  Pale 
arid  haggard  but  exalted.  She  had  given  him  a 
j  oriquil. 

"Old  Hoss,"  said  he,  with  a  new  smile  flickering 
around  his  mouth,  "I  believe  I  could  write  that  story 
to-night  —  the  one,  you  know,  that  is  to  win  out. 
I  can  feel  it.  I  don't  know  whether  it  will  come  out 
or  not,  but  I  can  feel  it." 

I  pushed  him  out  of  my  door.  "Go  to  your  room 
and  write  it,"  I  ordered.  "Else  I  can  see  your  finish. 
I  told  you  this  must  come  first.  Write  it  to-night 
and  put  it  under  my  door  when  it  is  done.  Put  it 
under  my  door  to-night  when  it  is  finished  —  don't 
keep  it  until  to-morrow." 

I  was  reading  my  bully  old  pal  Montaigne  at  two 
o'clock  when  I  heard  the  sheets  rustle  under  my  door. 
I  gathered  them  up  and  read  the  story. 

The  hissing  of  geese,  the  languishing  cooing  of 
doves,  the  braying  of  donkeys,  the  chatter  of  irre 
sponsible  sparrows  —  these  were  in  my  mind's  ear  as 
I  read.  "Suffering  Sappho !"  I  exclaimed  to  myself. 
"Is  this  the  divine  fire  that  is  supposed  to  ignite 
genius  and  make  it  practical  and  wage-earning?" 

The  story  was  sentimental  drivel,  full  of  whimper 
ing  soft-heartedness  and  gushing  egoism.  All  the 
art  that  Pettit  had  acquired  was  gone.  A  perusal 
of  its  buttery  phrases  would  have  made  a  cynic  of  a 
sighing  chambermaid. 


112  The  Voice  of  the  City 

In  the  morning  Pettit  came  to  my  room.  I  read 
him  his  doom  mercilessly.  He  laughed  idiotically. 

"All  right,  Old  Hoss,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "make 
cigar-lighters  of  it.  What's  the  difference?  I'm 
going  to  take  her  to  lunch  at  Claremont  to-day." 

There  was  about  a  month  of  it.  And  then  Pettit 
came  to  me  bearing  an  invisible  mitten,  with  the  for 
titude  of  a  dish-rag.  He  talked  of  the  grave  and 
South  America  and  prussic  acid;  and  I  lost  an  after 
noon  getting  him  straight.  I  took  him  out  and  saw 
that  large  and  curative  doses  of  whiskey  were  ad 
ministered  to  him.  I  warned  you  this  was  a  true 
story — 'ware  your  white  ribbons  if  you  follow  this 
tale.  For  two  weeks  I  fed  him  whiskey  and  Omar, 
and  read  to  him  regularly  every  evening  the  column 
in  the  evening  paper  that  reveals  the  secrets  of  fe 
male  beauty.  I  recommend  the  treatment. 

After  Pettit  was  cured  he  wrote  more  stories.  He 
recovered  his  old-time  facility  and  did  work  just 
short  of  good  enough.  Then  the  curtain  rose  on 
the  third  act. 

A  little,  dark-eyed,  silent  girl  from  New  Hamp 
shire,  who  was  studying  applied  design,  fell  deeply 
in  love  with  him.  She  was  the  intense  sort,  but  ex 
ternally  glace,  such  as  New  England  sometimes  fools 
us  with.  Pettit  liked  her  mildly,  and  took  her  about 
a  good  deal.  She  worshipped  him,  and  now  and  then 
bored  him. 


The  Plutonian  Fire  113 

There  came  a  climax  when  she  tried  to  jump  out 
of  a  window,  and  he  had  to  save  her  by  some  perfunc 
tory,  unmeant  wooing.  Even  I  was  shaken  by  the 
depths  of  the  absorbing  affection  she  showed.  Home, 
friends,  traditions,  creeds  went  up  like  thistle-down 
in  the  scale  against  her  love.  It  was  really  discom 
posing. 

One  night  again  Pettit  sauntered  in,  yawning.  As 
he  had  told  me  before,  he  said  he  felt  that  he  could 
do  a  great  story,  and  as  before  I  hunted  him  to  his 
room  and  saw  him  open  his  inkstand.  At  one  o'clock 
the  sheets  of  paper  slid  under  my  door. 

I  read  that  story,  and  I  jumped  up,  late  as  it  was, 
with  a  whoop  of  joy.  Old  Pettit  had  done  it.  Just 
as  though  it  lay  there,  red  and  bleeding,  a  woman's 
heart  was  written  into  the  lines.  You  couldn't  see 
the  joining,  but  art,  exquisite  art,  and  pulsing  na 
ture  had  been  combined  into  a  love  story  that  took 
you  by  the  throat  like  the  quinsy.  I  broke  into 
Pettit's  room  and  beat  him  on  the  back  and  called 
him  names  —  names  high  up  in  the  galaxy  of  the 
immortals  that  we  admired.  And  Pettit  yawned  and 
begged  to  be  allowed  to  sleep. 

On  the  morrow,  I  dragged  him  to  an  editor.  The 
great  man  read,  and,  rising,  gave  Pettit  his  hand. 
That  was  a  decoration,  a  wreath  of  bay,  and  a  guar 
antee  of  rent. 

And  then  old  Pettit  smiled  slowly.     I  call  him  Gen- 


The  Voice  of  the  City 

tleman  Pettit  now  to  myself.  It's  a  miserable  name 
to  give  a  man,  but  it  sounds  better  than  it  looks  in 
print. 

"I  see,"  said  old  Pettit,  as  he  took  up  his  story 
and  began  tearing  it  into  small  strips.  "I  see  the 
game  now.  You  can't  Write  with  ink,  and  you  can't 
write  with  your  own  heart's  blood,  but  you  can  write 
with  the  heart's  blood  of  some  one  else.  You  have 
to  be  a  cad  before  you  can  be  an  artist.  Well,  I  am 
for  old  Alabam  and  the  Major's  store.  Have  you 
got  a  light,  Old  Hoss?" 

I  went  with  Pettit  to  the  depot  and  died  hard. 

"Shakespeare's  sonnets?"  I  blurted,  making  a  last 
stand.  "How  about  him?" 

"A  cad,"  said  Pettit.  "They  give  it  to  you,  and 
you  sell  it  —  love,  you  know.  I'd  rather  sell  ploughs 
for  father." 

"But,"  I  protested,  "you  are  reversing  the  deci 
sion  of  the  world's  greatest " 

"Good-by,  Old  Hoss,"  said  Pettit. 

"Critics,"  I  continued.  "But  —  say  —  if  the 
Major  can  use  a  fairly  good  salesman  and  book 
keeper  down  there  in  the  store,  let  me  know,  will 
your" 


NEMESIS  AND  THE  CANDY  MAN 

VV  E  sail  at  eight  in  the  morning  on  the  Celtic," 
said  Honoria,  plucking  a  loose  thread  from  her  lace 
sleeve. 

"I  heard  so,"  said  young  Ives,  dropping  his  hat, 
and  muffing  it  as  he  tried  to  catch  it,  "and  I  came 
around  to  wish  you  a  pleasant  voyage." 

"Of  course  you  heard  it,"  said  Honoria,  coldly 
sweet,  "since  we  have  had  no  opportunity  of  inform 
ing  you  ourselves." 

Ives  looked  at  her  pleadingly,  but  with  little  hope. 

Outside  in  the  street  a  high-pitched  voice  chanted, 
not  unmusically,  a  commercial  gamut  of  "Cand-ee-ee- 
ee-s !  Nice,  fresh  cand-ee-ee-ee-ees  !" 

"It's  our  old  candy  man,"  said  Honoria,  leaning 
out  the  window  and  beckoning.  "I  want  some  of  his 
motto  kisses.  There's  nothing  in  the  Broadway 
shops  half  so  good." 

The  candy  man  stopped  his  pushcart  in  front  of 
the  old  Madison  Avenue  home.  He  had  a  holiday 
and  festival  air  unusual  to  street  peddlers.  His  tie 
was  new  and  bright  red,  and  a  horseshoe  pin,  almost 
life-size,  glittered  speciously  from  its  folds.  His 

115 


116  The  Voice  of  the  City 

brown,  thin  face  was  crinkled  into  a  semi-foolish 
smile.  Striped  cuffs  with  dog-head  buttons  covered 
the  tan  on  his  wrists. 

"I  do  belie\7e  he's  going  to  get  married,"  said 
Plonoria,  pityingly.  "I  never  saw  him  taken  that 
way  before.  And  to-day  is  the  first  time  in  months 
that  he  has  cried  his  wares,  I  am  sure." 

Ives  threw  a  coin  to  the  sidewalk.  The  candy  man 
knows  his  customers.  He  filled  a  paper  bag,  climbed 
the  old-fashioned  stoop  and  handed  it  in. 

"I  remember "  said  Ives. 

"Wait,"  said  Honoria. 

She  took  a  small  portfolio  from  the  drawer  of  a 
writing  desk  and  from  the  portfolio  a  slip  of  flimsy 
paper  one-quarter  of  an  inch  by  two  inches  in  size. 

"This,"  said  Honoria,  inflexibly,  "was  wrapped 
about  the  first  one  we  opened." 

"It  was  a  year  ago,"  apologized  Ives,  as  he  held 
out  his  hand  for  it, 

"As  long  as  skies  above  are  blue 
To  you,  my  love,  I  will  be  true.'* 

This  he  read  from  the  slip  of  flimsy  paper. 

"We  were  to  have  sailed  a  fortnight  ago,"  said 
Honoria,  gossipingly.  "It  has  been  such  a  warm 
summer.  The  town  is  quite  deserted.  There  is  no 
where  to  go.  Yet  I  am  told  that  one  or  two  of  the 
roof  gardens  are  amusing.  The  singing  —  and  the 


Nemesis  and  the  Candy  Man       117 

dancing — on  one  or  two  seem  to  have  met  with 
approval." 

Ives  did  not  wince.  When  you  are  in  the  ring  you 
are  not  surprised  when  your  adversary  taps  you  on 
the  ribs. 

"I  followed  the  candy  man  that  time,"  said  Ives, 
irrelevantly,  "and  gave  him  five  dollars  at  the  corner 
of  Broadway." 

He  reached  for  the  paper  bag  in  Honoria's  lap, 
took  out  one  of  the  square,  wrapped  confections  and 
slowly  unrolled  it. 

"Sara  Chillingworth's  father,"  said  Honoria,  "has 
given  her  an  automobile." 

"Read  that,"  said  Ives,  handing  over  the  slip  that 
had  been  wrapped  around  the  square  of  candy. 

"Life  teaches  us  —  how  to  live, 
Love  teaches  us  —  to  forgive." 

Honoria's  cheeks  turned  pink. 

"Honoria!"  cried  Ives,  starting  up  from  his 
chair. 

"Miss  Clinton,"  corrected  Honoria,  rising  like 
Venus  from  the  bead  on  the  surf.  "I  warned  you 
not  to  speak  that  name  again." 

"Honoria,"  repeated  Ives,  "you  must  hear  me.  I 
know  I  do  not  deserve  your  forgiveness,  but  I  must 
have  it.  There  is  a  madness  that  possesses  one  some 
times  for  which  his  better  nature  is  not  responsible. 


118  The  Voice  of  the  City 

I  throw  everything  else  but  you  to  the  winds.  I 
strike  off  the  chains  that  have  bound  me.  I  renounce 
the  siren  that  lured  me  from  you.  Let  the  bought 
verse  of  that  street  peddler  plead  for  me.  It  is  you 
only  whom  I  can  love.  Let  your  love  forgive,  and  I 
swear  to  you  that  mine  will  be  true  'as  long  as  skies 
above  are  blue.' " 

On  the  west  side,  between  Sixth  and  Seventh  Ave 
nues,  an  alley  cuts  the  block  in  the  middle.  It  per 
ishes  in  a  little  court  in  the  centre  of  the  block.  The 
district  is  theatrical ;  the  inhabitants,  the  bubbling 
froth  of  half  a  dozen  nations.  The  atmosphere  is 
Bohemian,  the  language  polyglot,  the  locality  pre 
carious. 

In  the  court  at  the  rear  of  the  alley  lived  the  candy 
man.  At  seven  o'clock  he  pushed  his  cart  into  the 
narrow  entrance,  rested  it  upon  the  irregular  stone 
slats  and  sat  upon  one  of  the  handles  to  cool  himself. 
There  was  a  great  draught  of  cool  wind  through  the 
alley. 

There  was  a  wrindow  above  the  spot  where  he  al 
ways  stopped  his  pushcart.  In  the  cool  of  the  after 
noon,  Mile.  Adele,  drawing  card  of  the  Aerial  Hoof 
Garden,  sat  at  the  window  and  took  the  air.  Gen 
erally  her  ponderous  mass  of  dark  auburn  hair  was 
down,  that  the  breeze  might  have  the  felicity  of  aid 
ing  Sidonie,  the  maid,  in  drying  and  airing  it.  About 


Nemesis  and  the  Candy  Man        119 

her  shoulders  —  the  point  of  her  that  the  photog 
raphers  always  made  the  most  of  —  was  loosely 
draped  a  heliotrope  scarf.  Her  arms  to  the  elbow 
were  bare  —  there  were  no  sculptors  there  to  rave 
over  them  —  but  even  the  stolid  bricks  in  the  walls 
of  the  alley  should  not  have  been  so  insensate  as  to 
disapprove.  While  she  sat  thus  Felice,  another  maid, 
anointed  and  bathed  the  small  feet  that  twinkled  and 
so  charmed  the  nightly  Aerial  audiences. 

Gradually  Mademoiselle  began  to  notice  the  candy 
man  stopping  to  mop  his  brow  and  cool  himself  be 
neath  her  window.  In  the  hands  of  her  maids  she 
was  deprived  for  the  time  of  her  vocation  —  the 
charming  and  binding  to  her  chariot  of  man.  To 
lose  time  was  displeasing  to  Mademoiselle.  Here  was 
the  candy  man  —  no  fit  game  for  her  darts,  truly  — 
but  of  the  sex  upon  which  she  had  been  born  to  make 
war. 

After  casting  upon  him  looks  of  unseeing  coldness 
for  a  dozen  times,  one  afternoon  she  suddenly 
thawed  and  poured  down  upon  him  a  smile  that  put 
to  shame  the  sweets  upon  his  cart. 

"Candy  man,"  she  said,  cooingly,  while  Sidonie 
followed  her  impulsive  dive,  brushing  the  heavy  au 
burn  hair,  "don't  you  think  I  am  beautiful?" 

The  candy  man  laughed  harshly,  and  looked  up, 
with  his  thin  jaw  set,  while  he  wiped  his  forehead 
with  a  red-and-blue  handkerchief. 


120  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"Yer'd  make  a  dandy  magazine  cover,"  he  said, 
grudgingly.  "Beautiful  or  not  is  for  them  that 
cares.  It's  not  my  line.  If  yer  lookin'  for  bou 
quets  apply  elsewhere  between  nine  and  twelve.  I 
think  we'll  have  rain." 

Truly,  fascinating  a  candy  man  is  like  killing  rat> 
bits  in  a  deep  snow ;  but  the  hunter's  blood  is  widely 
diffused.  Mademoiselle  tugged  a  great  coil  of 
hair  from  Sidonie's  hands  and  let  it  fall  out  the 
window. 

"Candy  man,  have  you  a  sweetheart  anywhere  with 
hair  as  long  and  soft  as  that?  And  with  an  arm  so 
round?"  She  flexed  an  arm  like  Galatea's  after  the 
miracle  across  the  window-sill. 

The  candy  man  cackled  shrilly  as  he  arranged  a 
stock  of  butter-scotch  that  had  tumbled  down. 

"Smoke  up !"  said  he,  vulgarly.  "Nothin'  doin* 
in  the  complimentary  line.  I'm  too  wise  to  be  bam 
boozled  by  a  switch  of  fcair  and  a  newly  massaged 
arm.  Oh,  I  guess  you'll  make  good  in  the  calcium, 
all  right,  with  plenty  of  powder  and  paint  on  and 
the  orchestra  playing  'Under  the  Old  Apple  Tree.' 
But  don't  put  on  your  hat  and  chase  downstairs  to 
fly  to  the  Little  Church  Around  the  Corner  with  me. 
I've  been  up  against  peroxide  and  make-up  boxes 
before.  Say,  all  j  oking  aside  —  don't  you  think  we'll 
have  rain?" 

"Candy  man,"  said  Mademoiselle,  softty,  with  her 


Nemesis  and  the  Candy  Man       121 

lips  curving  and  her  chin  dimpling,  "don't  you  think 
Tin  pretty?" 

The  candy  man  grinned. 

"Savin'  money,  ain't  yer?"  said  he,  "by  bein'  yer 
own  press  agent.  I  smoke,  but  I  haven't  seen  yer 
mug  on  any  of  the  five-cent  cigar  boxes.  It'd  take 
a  new  brand  of  woman  to  get  me  go  in',  anyway.  I 
know  'em  from  sidecombs  to  shoelaces.  Gimme  a 
good  day's  sales  and  steak-and-onions  at  seven  and 
a  pipe  and  an  evenin'  paper  back  there  in  the  court, 
and  I'll  not  trouble  Lillian  Russell  herself  to  wink  at 
me,  if  you  please." 

Mademoiselle  pouted. 

"Candy  man,"  she  said,  softly  and  deeply,  "yet 
you  shall  say  that  I  am  beautiful.  All  men  say  so 
and  so  shall  you." 

The  candy  man  laughed  and  pulled  out  his  pipe. 

"Well,"  said  he,  "I  must  be  goin'  in.  There  is  a 
story  in  the  evenin'  paper  that  I  am  readin'.  Men 
are  divin*  in  the  seas  for  a  treasure,  and  pirates  are 
watchin'  them  from  behind  a  reef.  And  there  ain't 
a  woman  on  land  or  water  or  in  the  air.  Good- 
evenin'."  And  he  trundled  his  pushcart  down  the 
alley  and  back  to  the  musty  court  where  he  lived. 

Incredibly  to  him  who  has  not  learned  woman, 
Mademoiselle  sat  at  the  window  each  day  and  spread 
her  nets  for  the  ignominious  game.  Once  she  kept  a 
grand  cavalier  waiting  in  her  reception  chamber  for 


122  The  Voice  of  the  City 

half  an  hour  while  she  battered  in  vain  the  candy 
man's  tough  philosophy.  His  rough  laugh  chafed 
her  vanity  to  its  core.  Daily  he  sat  on  his  cart  in 
the  breeze  of  the  alley  while  her  hair  was  being  minis 
tered  to,  and  daily  the  shafts  of  her  beauty  rebounded 
from  his  dull  bosom  pointless  and  ineffectual.  Un 
worthy  pique  brightened  her  eyes.  Pride-hurt  she 
glowed  upon  him  in  a  way  that  would  have  sent  her 
higher  adorers  into  an  egoistic  paradise.  The  candy 
man's  hard  eyes  looked  upon  her  with  a  half-con 
cealed  derision  that  urged  her  to  the  use  of  the 
sharpest  arrow  in  her  beauty's  quiver. 

One  afternoon  she  leaned  far  over  the  sill,  and  she 
did  not  challenge  and  torment  him  as  usual. 

"Candy  man,"  said  she,  "stand  up  and  look  into 
my  eyes." 

He  stood  up  and  looked  into  her  eyes,  with  his 
harsh  laugh  like  the  sawing  of  wood.  He  took  out 
his  pipe,  fumbled  with  it,  and  put  it  back  into  his 
pocket  with  a  trembling  hand. 

"That  will  do,"  said  Mademoiselle,  with  a  slow 
smile.  "I  must  go  now  to  my  masseuse.  Good- 


The  next  evening  at  seven  the  candy  man  came  and 
rested  his  cart  under  the  window.  But  was  it  the 
candy  man?  His  clothes  were  a  bright  new  check. 
His  necktie  was  a  flaming  red,  adorned  by  a  glit 
tering  horseshoe  pin,  almost  life-size.  His  shoes  were 


Nemesis  and  the  Candy  Man        123 

polished;  the  tan  of  his  checks  had  paled  —  his  hands 
had  been  washed.  The  window  was  empty,  and  lie 
waited  under  it  with  his  nose  upward,  like  a  hound 
hoping  for  a  bone. 

Mademoiselle  came,  with  Sidonie  carrying  her  load 
of  hair.  She  looked  at  the  candy  man  and  smiled 
a  slow  smile  that  faded  away  into  ennui.  Instantly 
she  knew  that  the  game  was  bagged ;  and  so  quickly 
she  wearied  of  the  chase.  She  began  to  talk  to 
Sidonie. 

"Been  a  fine  day,"  said  the  candy  man,  hollowly. 
"First  time  in  a  month  I've  felt  first-class.  Hit  it 
up  down  old  Madison,  hollering  out  like  I  usetcr. 
Think  it'll  rain  to-morrow?" 

Mademoiselle  laid  two  round  arms  on  the  cushion 
on  the  window-sill,  and  a  dimpled  chin  upon  them. 

"Candy  man,"  said  she,  softly,  "do  you  not 
love  me?" 

The  candy  man  stood  up  and  leaned  against  the 
brick  wall. 

"Lady,"  said  he,  chokingly,  "I've  got  $800  saved 
up.  Did  I  say  you  wasn't  beautiful?  Take  it  every 
bit  of  it  and  buy  a  collar  for  your  dog  with  it." 

A  sound  as  of  a  hundred  silvery  bells  tinkled  in  the 
room  of  Mademoiselle.  The  laughter  filled  the  alley 
and  trickled  back  into  the  court,  as  strange  a  thing 
to  enter  there  as  sunlight  itself.  Mademoiselle  was 
amused.  Sidonie,  a  wise  echo,  added  a  sepulchral 


124  The  Voice  of  the  City 

but  faithful  contralto.  The  laughter  of  the  two 
seemed  at  last  to  penetrate  the  candy  man.  He 
fumbled  with  his  horseshoe  pin.  At  length  Made 
moiselle,  exhausted,  turned  her  flushed,  beautiful  face 
to  the  window. 

"Candy  man,"  said  she,  "go  away.  When  I  laugh 
Sidonie  pulls  my  hair.  I  can  but  laugh  while  you 
remain  there." 

"Here  is  a  note  for  Mademoiselle,"  said  Felice, 
coming  to  the  window  in  the  room. 

"There  is  no  justice,"  said  the  candy  man,  lifting 
the  handle  of  his  cart  and  moving  away. 

Three  yards  he  moved,  and  stopped.  Loud  shriek 
after  shriek  came  from  the  window  of  Mademoiselle. 
Quickly  he  ran  back.  He  heard  a  body  thumping 
upon  the  floor  and  a  sound  as  though  heels  beat  alter 
nately  upon  it. 

"What  is  it?"  he  called. 

Sidonie's  severe  head  came  into  the  window. 

"Mademoiselle  is  overcome  by  bad  news,"  she  said. 
"One  whom  she  loved  with  all  her  soul  has  gone  — 
you  may  have  heard  of  him  —  he  is  Monsieur  Ives. 
He  sails  across  the  ocean  to-morrow.  Oh,  you  men !" 


SQUARING  THE  CIRCLE 

AT  the  hazard  of  wearying  you  this  tale  of  vehe 
ment  emotions  must  be  prefaced  by  a  discourse  on 
geometry. 

Nature  moves  in  circles;  Art  in  straight  lines. % 
The  natural  is  rounded ;  the  artificial  is  made  up  of 
angles.  A  man  lost  in  the  snow  wanders,  in  spite  of! 
himself,  in  perfect  circles ;  the/  city  man's  feet,  de-, 
naturalized  by  rectangular  streets  and  floors,  carry, 
him  ever  away  from  himself. 

The  round  eyes  of  childhood  typify  innocence ;  the 
narrowed  line  of  the  flirt's  optic  proves  the  invasion  • 
of  art.     The  horizontal  mouth  is  the  mark  of  deter 
mined  cunning;  who  has  not  read  Nature's  most  spon 
taneous  lyric  in  lips  rounded  for  the  candid  kiss? 

Beauty  is  Nature  in  perfection ;  circularity  is  its\ 
chief  attribute.     Behold  the  full  moon,  the  enchant 
ing  gold  ball,   the  domes   of  splendid   temples,   the/ 
huckleberry  pie,  the  wedding  ring,  the  circus  ring) 
the  ring  for  the  waiter,  and  the  "round"  of  drinks. 

On  the  other  hand,  straight  lines  show  that  Nature  * 
has  been  deflected.     Imagine  Venus's   girdle  trans-  ' 
formed  into  a  "straight  front" ! 

When  we  begin  to  move  in  straight  lines  and  turn 
125  I 


126  The  Voice  of  the  City 

sharp  corners  our  natures  begin  to  change.  The  \ 
consequence  is  that  Nature,  being  more  adaptive  than  ; 
Art,  tries  to  conform  to  its  sterner  regulations.  The  ^ 
result  is  often  a  rather  curious  product  — -  for  in 
stance:  A  prize  chrysanthemum,  wood  alcohol  whis 
key,  a  Republican  Missouri,  cauliflower  an  gratin,  s- 
and  a  New  Yorker. 

Nature  is  lost  quickest  in  a  big  city.     The  cause 
is  geometrical,  not  moral.     The  straight  lines  of  its 
streets   and  architecture,  the  rectangular  ity   of   itsl 
laws  and  social  customs,  the  undeviating  pavements.! 
the  hard,  severe,  depressing,  uncompromising  rules  of  { 
all  its  ways  —  even  of  its  recreation  and  sports  — 
coldly  exhibit  a  sneering  defiance  of  the  curved  line  j 
of  Nature. 

Wherefore,  it  may  be  said  that  the  big  city  has 
demonstrated    the   problem   of   squaring   the    circltv, 
And  it  may  be  added  that  this  mathematical  intro-f 
duction  precedes  an  account  of  the  fate  of  a  Kentucky ! 
feud  that  was  imported  to  the  city  that  has  a  habit 
of  making  its  importations  conform  to  its  angles. 
\  The  feud  began  in  the  Cumberland  Mountains  be 
tween  the  Folwell  and  the  Harkness  families.     The 
first  victim  of  the  homespun  vendetta  was  a  'possum 
dog  belonging  to  Bill  Harkness.  j  The  Harkness  fam 
ily  evened  up  this  dire  loss  by  laying  out  the  chief 
of  the  Folwell  clan.     The  Folwells  were  prompt  at 
repartee.     They   oiled   up   their   squirrel   rifles    and 


Squaring  the  Circle  127 

made  it  feasible  for  Bill  Harkness  to  follow  his  dog 
to  a  land  where  the  'possums  come  down  when  treed 
without  the  stroke  of  an  ax.  7 

The  feud  flourished  for  forty  years.  Harknesses 
were  shot  at  the  plough,  through  their  lamp-lit  cabin 
windows,  coming  from  camp-meeting,  asleep,  in 
duello,  sober  and  otherwise,  singly  and  in  family 
groups,  prepared  and  unprepared.  Folwells  had  the 
branches  of  their  family  tree  lopped  off  in  similar 
ways,  as  the  traditions  of  their  country  prescribed 
and  authorized. 

By  and  by  the  pruning  left  but  a  single  member 
of  each  family.  And  then  Cal  Harkness,  probably 
reasoning  that  further  pursuance  of  the  controversy 
would  give  a  too  decided  personal  flavor  to  the  feud, 
suddenly  disappeared  from  the  relieved  Cumberlands, 
baulking  the  avenging  hand  of  Sam,  the  ultimate 
opposing  Folwell. 

A  3Tear  afterward  Sam  Folwell  learned  that  his 
hereditary,  unsuppressed  enemy  was  living  in  New 
York  City./  Sam  turned  over  the  big  iron  wash-pot 
in  the  yard,  scraped  off  some  of  the  soot,  which  he 
mixed  with  lard  and  shined  his  boots  with  the  com 
pound.  He  put  on  his  store  clothes  of  butternut 
dyed  black,  a  white  shirt  and  collar,  and  packed  a 
carpet-sack  with  Spartan  lingerie.  He  took  his 
squirrel  rifle  from  its  hooks,  but  put  it  back  again 
with  a  sigh.  However  ethical  and  plausible  the  habit 


128  The  Voice  of  the  City 

might  be  in  the  Cumberlands,  perhaps  New  York 
would  not  swallow  his  pose  of  hunting  squirrels  among 
the  skyscrapers  along  Broadway.  An  ancient  but 
reliable  Colt's  revolver  that  he  resurrected  from  a 
bureau  drawer  seemed  to  proclaim  itself  the  pink  of 
weapons  for  metropolitan  adventure  and  vengeance. 
This  and  a  hunting-knife  in  a  leather  sheath,  Sam 
packed  in  the  carpet-sack.  As  he  started,  muleback, 
for  the  lowland  railroad  station  the  last  Folwell 
turned  in  his  saddle  and  looked  grimly  at  the  little 
cluster  of  white-pine  slabs  in  the  clump  of  cedars 
that  marked  the  Folwell  buryirig-ground. .''  ' 

Sam  Folwell  arrived  in  New  York  jn  the 
Still  moving  and  living  in  the  free  circles  of  nature, 
he  did  not  perceive  the  formidable,  pitiless,  restless, 
fierce  angles  of  the  great  city  waiting  in  the  dark 
to  close  about  the  rotundity  of  his  heart  and  brain 
and  mould  him  to  the  form  of  its  millions  of  re-; 
shaped  victims.  I A  cabby  picked  him  out  of  the 
whirljas  Sam  himself  had  often  picked  a  nut  from  a 
bed  of  wind-tossed  autumn  leaves,  fend  whisked  him 
away  to  a  hotel  commensurate  to  his  boots  and 
carpet-sack. 

On  the  next  morning  the  last  of  the  Folwell s  made 
his  sortie  into  the  city  that  sheltered  the  last  H ark- 
ness.  The  Colt  was  thrust  beneath  his  coat  and  se 
cured  by  a  narrow  leather  belt ;  the  hunting-knife 
hung  between  his  shoulder-blades,  with  the  haft  an 


Squaring  tlie  Circle  129 

inch  below  his  coat  collar.  He  knew  this  much  — 
that  Cal  Harkncss  drove  an  express  wagon  somewhere 
in  that  town,  and  that  he,  Sam  Folwell,  had  come 
to  kill  him.  And  as  he  stepped-  upon  the  sidewalk 
the  red  came  into  his  eye  and  the  feud-hate  into  his 
heart. 

The  clamor  of  the  central  avenues  drew  him  thith 
erward.  He  had  half  expected  to  see  Cal  coming 
down  the  street  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  a  jug  And 
a  whip  in  his  hand,  just  as  he  would  have  seen  him 
in  Frankfort  or  Laurel  City.  But  an  hour  went  by 
and  Cal  did  not  appear.  Perhaps  he  was  waiting  in 
ambush,  to  shoot  him  from  a  door  or  a  window.  Sam 
kept  a  sharp  eye  on  doors  and  windows  for  a  while. 

About  noon  the  city  tired  of  playing  with  its  mouse, 
and  suddenly  squeezed  him  with  its  straight  lines.  , 

Sam  Folwell  stood  where  two  great,  rectangular; 
arteries  of  the  city  cross.  (  He  looked  fuur  ways,  and 
saw  the  world  hurled  from  its  orbit  and  reduced 
by  spirit  level  and  tape  to  an  edged  and  cornered 
plane.  /All  life  moved  on  tracks,  in  grooves,  accord 
ing  to  system,  within  boundaries,  by  rote.  The  root 
of  life  was  the^cube  root ;  the  measure  of  existence 
was  square  measure.  1  People  streamed  by  in  straight 
rows ;  the  horrible  din  and  crash  stupefied  him. 

Sam  leaned  against  the  sharp  corner  of  a  stone 
building.  £T^nose  faces  passed  him  by  thousands,  and 
none  of  them  were  turned  toward  him.  A  sudden 


ISO  The  Voice  of  the  City 

foolish  fear  that  he  had  died  and  was  a  spirit,  and 
that  they  could  not  see  him,  seized  him.  And  then 
the  city  smote  him  with  loneliness. 

A  fat  man  dropped  out  of  the  stream  and  stood 
a  few  feet  distant,  waiting  for  his  car.  Sam  crept 
to  his  side  and  shouted  above  the  tumult  into  his 
ear: 

"The  Rankinses'  hogs  weighed  more'n  ourn  a  whole 
passel,  but  the  mast  in  thar  neighborhood  was  a  fine 
chance  better  than  what  it  was  down " 

The  fat  man  moved  away  unostentatiously,  and 
bought  roasted  chestnuts  to  cover  his  alarm. 

Sam  felt  the  need  of  a  drop  of  mountain  dew. 
Across  the  street  men  passed  in  and  out  through 
swinging  doors.  Brief  glimpses  could  be  had  of  a 
glistening  bar  and  its  bedeckings.  The  feudist 
crossed  and  essayed  to  enter.  /Again  had  Art  elimi 
nated  the  familiar  circlcA  Sam's  hand  found  no 
door-knob  —  it  slid,  in  vain,  over  a  rectangular  brass 
plate  and  polished  oak  with  nothing  even  so  large  as 
a  pin's  head  upon  which  his  fingers  might  close. 

Abashed,  reddened,  heartbroken,  he  walked  away 
from  the  bootless  door  arid  sat  upon  a  step.  A 
locust  club  tickled  him  in  the  ribs. 

"Take  a  walk  for  yourself,"  said  the  policeman. 
"You've  been  loafing  around  here  long  enough.*' 

At  the  next  corner  a  shrill  whistle  sounded  in 
Sam's  ear.  He  wheeled  around  and  saw  a  black- 


Squaring  the  Circle  131 

browed  villain  scowling  at  him  over  peanuts  heaped 
on  a  steaming  machine.  He  started  across  the  street. 
An  immense  engine,  running  without  mules,  with  the 
voice  of  a  bull  and  the  smell  of  a  smoky  lamp,  whizzed 
past,  grazing  his  knee.  A  cab-driver  bumped  him 
with  a  hub  and  explained  to  him  that  kind  words  were 
invented  to  be  used  on  other  occasions.  A  motorman 
clanged  his  bell  wildly  and,  for  once  in  his  life,  cor 
roborated  a  cab-driver.  A  large  lady  in  a  change 
able  silk  waist  dug  an  elbow  into  his  back,  and  a 
newsy  pensively  pelted  him  with  banana  rinds,  mur 
muring,  "I  hates  to  do  it  —  but  if  anybody  seen  me 
let  it  pass !" 

Cal  Harkness,  his  day's  work  over  and  his  express 
wagon  stabled,  turned  the  sharp  edge  of  the  buildii 
I  that,  by  the  cheek  of  architects,  is  modelled  upon  j. 
safety  razor)  Out  of  the  mass  of  hurrying  people 
his  eye  picked  up,  three  yards  away,  the  surviving 
bloody  and  implacable  foe  of  his  kith  and  kin. 

He  stopped  short  and  wavered  for  a  moment,  being 
unarmed  and  sharply  surprised.  But  the  keen  moun 
taineer's  eye  of  Sam  Folwcil  had  picked  him  out. 

There  was  a  sudden  spring,  a  ripple  in  the  stream 
of  passers-by  and  the  sound  of  Sam's  voice  cr}ring: 

"Howdy,  Cal!     I'm  durned  glad  to  see  ye." 

And  in  the  angles  of  Broaduay,  Fifth  Avenue  and  ; 
Twentj:  third  Street  the  Cumberland  feudists  shook  \ 
hands. 


ROSES,  RUSES  AND  ROMANCE 

RAVENEL  —  Ravencl,  the  traveller,  artist  and  poet, 
threw  his  magazine  to  the  floor.  Sammy  Brown, 
broker's  clerk,  who  sat  by  the  window,  jumped. 

"What  is  it,  Ravvy?"  he  asked.  "The  critics  been 
hammering  your  stock  down?" 

"Romance  is  dead,"  said  Ravenel,  lightly.  When 
Ravenel  spoke  lightly  he  was  generally  serious.  He 
picked  up  the  magazine  and  fluttered  its  leaves. 

"Even  a  Philistine,  like  you,  Sammy,"  said  Rave 
nel,  seriously  (a  tone  that  insured  him  to  be  speak 
ing  lightly),  "ought  to  understand.  Now,  here  is 
a  magazine  that  once  printed  Poe  and  Lowell  and 
Whitman  and  Bret  Harte  and  Du  Maurier  and  Lanier 
and  —  well,  that  gives  you  the  idea.  The  current 
number  has  this  literary  feast  to  set  before  you:  an 
article  on  the  stokers  and  coal  bunkers  of  battle 
ships,  an  expose  of  the  methods  employed  in  making 
liverwurst,  a  continued  story  of  a  Standard  Pre 
ferred  International  Baking  Powder  deal  in  Wall 
Street,  a  'poem'  on  the  bear  that  the  President 
missed,  another  'story'  by  a  young  woman  who  spent 
a  week  as  a  spy  making  overalls  on  the  Bast  Side, 
another  'fiction'  story  that  reeks  of  the  'garage'  and 

132 


Roses,  Ruses  and  Romance          133 

a  certain  make  of  automobile.  Of  course,  the  title 
contains  the  words  'Cupid'  and  'Chauffeur' — an  ar 
ticle  on  naval  strategy,  illustrated  with  cuts  of  the 
Spanish  Armada,  and  the  new  Staten  Island  ferry 
boats  ;  another  story  of  a  political  boss  who  won  the . 
love  of  a  Fifth  Avenue  belle  by  blackening  her  eye 
and  refusing  to  vote  for  an  iniquitous  ordinance  (it 
doesn't  say  whether  it  was  in  the  Street-Cleaning 
Department  or  Congress),  and  nineteen  pages  by  the 
editors  bragging  about  the  circulation.  The  whole 
thing,  Sammy,  is  an  obituary  on  Romance." 

Sammy  Brown  sat  comfortably  in  the  leather  arm 
chair  by  the  open  window.  His  suit  was  a  vehement 
brown  with  visible  checks,  beautifully  matched  in 
shade  by  the  ends  of  four  cigars  that  his  vest  pocket 
poorly  concealed.  Light  tan  were  his  shoes,  gray  his 
socks,  sky-blue  his  apparent  linen,  snowy  and  high 
and  adamantine  his  collar,  against  which  a  black  but 
terfly  had  alighted  and  spread  his  wings.  Sammy's 
face  —  least  important  —  was  round  and  pleasant 
and  pinkish,  and  in  his  eyes  you  saw  no  haven  for 
fleeing  Romance. 

That  window  of  Ravenel's  apartment  opened  upon 
an  old  garden  full  of  ancient  trees  and  shrubbery. 
The  apartment-house  towered  above  one  side  of  it; 
a  high  brick  wall  fended  it  from  the  street ;  opposite 
Ravenel's  window  an  old,  old  mansion  stood,  half- 
hidden  in  the  shade  of  the  summer  foliage.  The 


134  The  Voice  of  the  City 

house  was  a  castle  besieged.  The  city  howled  and 
roared  and  shrieked  and  beat  upon  its  double  doors, 
and  shook  white,  fluttering  checks  above  the  wall, 
offering  terms  of  surrender.  The  gray  dust  settled 
upon  the  trees ;  the  siege  was  pressed  hotter,  but  the 
drawbridge  was  not  lowered.  No  further  will  the 
language  of  chivalry  serve.  Inside  lived  an  old  gen 
tleman  who  loved  his  home  and  did  not  wish  to  sell  it. 
That  is  all  the  romance  of  the  besieged  castle. 

Three  or  four  times  every  week  came  Sammy 
Brown  to  RavenePs  apartment.  He  belonged  to  the 
poet's  club,  for  the  former  Browns  had  been  conspicu 
ous,  though  Sammy  had  been  vulgarized  by  Business. 
He  had  no  tears  for  departed  Romance.  The  song 
of  the  ticker  was  the  one  that  reached  his  heart,  and 
when  it  came  to  matters  equine  and  batting  scores 
he  was  something  of  a  pink  edition.  He  loved  to  sit 
in  the  leather  armchair  by  RavenePs  window.  And 
Ravenel  didn't  mind  particularly.  Sammy  seemed  to 
enjoy  his  talk;  and  then  the  broker's  clerk  was  such 
a  perfect  embodiment  of  modernity  and  the  day's 
sordid  practicality  that  Ravenel  rather  liked  to  use 
him  as  a  scapegoat. 

"I'll  tell  3rou  what's  the  matter  with  you,"  said 
Sammy,  with  the  shrewdness  that  business  had  taught 
him.  "The  magazine  has  turned  down  some  of  your 
poetry  stunts.  That's  why  you  are  sore  at  it." 

"That  would  be  a  good  guess  in  Wall  Street  or  in 


Roses,  R 'uses  and  Romance          135 

a  campaign  for  the  presidency  of  a  woman's  club," 
said  Ravenel,  quietly.  "Now,  there  is  a  poem  —  if 
you  will  allow  me  to  call  it  that  —  of  my  own  in  this 
number  of  the  magazine." 

''Head  it  to  me,"  said  Sammy,  watching  a  cloud  of 
pipe-smoke  he  had  just  blown  out  the  window. 

Ravenel  was  no  greater  than  Achilles.  No  one  is. 
There  is  bound  to  be  a  spot.  The  Somebody -or- 
Other  must  take  hold  of  us  somewhere  when  she  dips 
us  in  the  Something-or-Other  that  makes  us  invulner 
able.  He  read  aloud  this  verse  in  the  magazine : 

THE  FOUR  ROSES 

"One  rose  I  twined  within  your  hair  — 

(White  rose,  that  spake  of  worth) ; 
And  one  you  placed  upon  your  breast  — 

(Red  rose,  love's  seal  of  birth). 
You  plucked  another  from  its  stem  — 

(Tea  rose,  that  means  for  aye) ; 
And  one  you  gave  —  that  bore  for  me 

The  thorns  of  memory." 

"That's  a  cracker  jack,"  said  Sammy,  admiringly. 

"There  are  five  more  verses,"  said  Ravenel,  pa 
tiently  sardonic.  "One  naturally  pauses  at  the  end 
of  each.  Of  course " 

"Oh,  let's  have  the  rest,  old  man,"  shouted  Sammy, 
contrite^,  "I  didn't  mean  to  cut  you  off.  I'ir  not 
much  of  a  poetry  expert,  you  know.  I  never  saw  a 
poem  that  didn't  look  like  it  ought  to  have  terminal 


136  The  Voice  of  the  City 

facilities  at  the  end  of  every  verse.  Reel  off  the  rest 
of  it." 

Ravenel  sighed,  and  laid  the  magazine  down.  "All 
right,"  said  Sammy,  cheerfully,  "we'll  have  it  next 
time.  I'll  be  off  now.  Got  a  date  at  five  o'clock." 

He  took  a  last  look  at  the  shaded  green  garden 
and  left,  whistling  in  an  off  key  an  untuneful  air  from 
a  roofless  farce  comedy. 

The  next  afternoon  Ravenel,  while  polishing  a 
ragged  line  of  a  new  sonnet,  reclined  by  the  window 
overlooking  the  besieged  garden  of  the  unmercenary 
baron.  Suddenly  he  sat  up,  spilling  two  rhymes  and 
a  syllable  or  two. 

Through  the  trees  one  window  of  the  old  mansion 
could  be  seen  clearly.  In  its  window,  draped  in  flow 
ing  white,  leaned  the  angel  of  all  his  dreams  of  ro 
mance  and  poesy.  Young,  fresh  as  a  drop  of  dew, 
graceful  as  a  spray  of  clematis,  conferring  upon  the 
garden  hemmed  in  by  the  roaring  traffic  the  air  of  a 
princess's  bower,  beautiful  as  any  flower  sung  by 
poet  —  thus  Ravenel  saw  her  for  the  first  time.  She 
lingered  for  a  while,  and  then  disappeared  within, 
leaving  a  few  notes  of  a  birdlike  ripple  of  song  to 
reach  his  entranced  ears  through  the  rattle  of  cabs 
and  the  snarling  of  the  electric  cars. 

Thus,  as  if  to  challenge  the  poet's  flaunt  at  ro 
mance  and  to  punish  him  for  his  recreancy  to  the 
undying  spirit  of  youth  and  beauty,  this  vision  had 


Roses,  Ruses  and  Romance          137 

dawned  upon  him  with  a  thrilling  and  accusive  power. 
And  so  metabolic  was  the  power  that  in  an  instant 
the  atoms  of  llavenel's  entire  world  were  redistrib 
uted.  The  laden  drays  that  passed  the  house  in 
which  she  lived  rumbled  a  deep  double-bass  to  the 
tune  of  love.  The  newsboys'  shouts  were  the  notes 
of  singing  birds;  that  garden  was  the  pleasance  of 
the  Capulets;  the  janitor  was  an  ogre;  himself  a 
knight,  ready  with  sword,  lance  or  lute. 

Thus  does  romance  show  herself  amid  forests  of 
brick  and  stone  when  she  gets  lost  in  the  city,  and 
there  has  to  be  sent  out  a  general  alarm  to  find  her 
again. 

At  four  in  the  afternoon  Ravenel  looked  out  across 
the  garden.  In  the  window  of  his  hopes  were  set 
four  small  vases,  each  containing  a  great,  full-blown 
rose  —  red  and  white.  And,  as  he  gazed,  she  leaned 
above  them,  shaming  them  with  her  loveliness  and 
seeming  to  direct  her  eyes  pensively  toward  his  own 
window.  And  then,  as  though  she  had  caught  his 
respectful  but  ardent  regard,  she  melted  away,  leav 
ing  the  fragrant  emblems  on  the  window-sill. 

Yes,  emblems !  —  he  wrould  be  unworthy  if  he  had 
not  understood.  She  had  read  his  poem,  "The  Four 
Roses" ;  it  had  reached  her  heart ;  and  this  was  its 
romantic  answer.  Of  course  she  must  know  that 
Ravenel,  the  poet,  lived  there  across  her  garden.  His 
picture,  too,  she  must  have  seen  in  the  magazines. 


138  The  Voice  of  the  City 

The  delicate,  tender,  modest,  flattering  message  could 
not  be  ignored. 

Ravenel  noticed  beside  the  roses  a  small  flowcring- 
pot  containing  a  plant.  Without  shame  he  brought 
his  opera-glasses  and  employed  them  from  the  cover 
of  his  window-curtain.  A  nutmeg  geranium! 

With  the  true  poetic  instinct  he  dragged  a  book 
of  useless  information  from  his  shelves,  and  tore  open 
the  leaves  at  "The  Language  of  Flowers." 

"Geranium,  Nutmeg — I  expect  a  meeting/' 

So  !  Romance  never  does  things  by  halves.  If  she 
comes  back  to  you  she  brings  gifts  and  her  knitting, 
and  will  sit  in  your  chimney-corner  if  you  will  let. 
her. 

And  now  Ravenel  smiled.  The  lover  smiles 
when  he  thinks  he  has  won.  The  woman  who  loves 
ceases  to  smile  with  victory.  He  ends  a  battle ;  she 
begins  hers.  What  a  pretty  idea  to  set  the  four 
roses  in  her  window  for  him  to  see!  She  must  have 
a  sweet,  poetic  soul.  And  now  to  contrive  the 
meeting. 

A  whistling  and  slamming  of  doors  preluded  the 
coming  of  Sammy  Brown. 

Ravenel  smiled  again.  Even  Sammy  Brown  was 
shone  upon  by  the  far-flung  rays  of  the  renaissance. 
Sammy,  with  his  ultra  clothes,  his  horseshoe  pin,  his 
plump  face,  his  trite  slang,  his  uncomprehending 
admiration  of  Ravenel  —  the  broker's  clerk  made  an 


Roses,  Ruses  and  Romance         139 

excellent  foil  to  the  new,  bright  unseen  visitor  to  the 
poet's  sombre  apartment. 

Sammy  went  to  his  old  seat  by  the  window,  and 
looked  out  over  the  dusty  green  foliage  in  the 
garden.  Then  he  looked  at  his  watch,  and  rose 
hastily. 

"By  grabs!"  he  exclaimed.  "Twenty  after  four! 
I  can't  stay,  old  man ;  I've  got  a  date  at  4 :30." 

"Why  did  you  come,  then?"  asked  Ravenel,  with 
sarcastic  jocularity,  "if  you  had  an  engagement  at 
that  time.  I  thought  you  business  men  kept  better 
account  of  your  minutes  and  seconds  than  that." 

Sammy  hesitated  in  the  doorway  and  turned 
pinker. 

"Fact  is,  Ravvy,"  he  explained,  as  to  a  customer 
whose  margin  is  exhausted,  "I  didn't  know  I  had  it 
till  I  caine.  I'll  tell  you,  old  man  —  there's  a  dandy 
girl  in  that  old  house  next  door  that  I'm  dead  gone 
on.  I  put  it  straight  —  we're  engaged.  The  old 
man  says  cnit' — but  that  don't  go.  He  keeps  her 
pretty  close.  I  can  see  Edith's  window  from  yours 
here.  She  gives  me  a  tip  when  she's  going  shopping, 
and  I  meet  her.  It's  4  :30  to-day.  Maybe  I  ought 
to  have  explained  sooner,  but  I  know  it's  all  right 
with  you  —  so  long." 

"How  do  you  get  your  Hip,'  as  you  call  it?"  asked 
Ravenel,  losing  a  little  spontaneity  from  his  smile. 

"Roses,"  said  Sammy,  briefly.     "Four  of  'em  to- 


140  The  Voice  of  the  City 

day.  Means  four  o'clock  at  the  corner  of  Broadway 
and  Twenty-third." 

"But  the  geranium?"  persisted  Ravenel,  clutching 
at  the  end  of  flying  Romance's  trailing  robe. 

"Means  half-past,"  shouted  Sammy  from  the  hall. 
"See  you  to-morrow." 


THE  CITY  OF  DREADFUL  NIGHT 

DURING  the  recent  warmed-over  spell,"  said  my 
friend  Carney,  driver  of  express  wagon  No.  8,606, 
ua  good  many  opportunities  was  had  of  observing 
human  nature  through  peekaboo  waists. 

"The  Park  Commissioner  and  the  Commissioner  of 
Polis  and  the  Forestry  Commission  gets  together  and 
agrees  to  let  the  people  sleep  in  the  parks  until  the 
Weather  Bureau  gets  the  thermometer  down  again  to 
a  living  basis.  So  they  draws  up  open-air  resolu 
tions  and  has  them  O.K.'d  by  the  Secretary  of  Agri 
culture,  Mr.  Comstock  and  the  Village  Improvement 
Mosquito  Exterminating  Society  of  South  Orange, 
N.  J. 

"When  the  proclamation  was  made  opening  up  to 
the  people  by  special  grant  the  public  parks  that  be 
long  to  'em,  there  was  a  general  exodus  into  Central 
Park  by  the  communities  existing  along  its  borders. 
In  ten  minutes  after  sundown  you'd  have  thought 
that  there  was  an  undress  rehearsal  of  a  potato 
famine  in  Ireland  and  a  Kishineff  massacre.  They 
come  by  families,  gangs,  clambake  societies,  clans, 
clubs  and  tribes  from  all  sides  to  enjoy  a  cool  sleep  on 
the  grass.  Them  that  didn't  have  oil  stoves  brought 
along  plenty  of  blankets,  so  as  not  to  be  upset  with 

141 


142  The  Voice  of  the  City 

the  cold  and  discomforts  of  sleeping  outdoors.  By 
building  fires  of  the  shade  trees  and  huddling  together 
in  the  bridle  paths,  and  burrowing  under  the  grass 
where  the  ground  was  soft  enough,  the  likes  of  5,000 
head  of  people  successfully  battled  against  the  night 
air  in  Central  Park  alone. 

"Ye  know  I  live  in  the  elegant  furnished  apart 
ment  house  called  the  Beersheba  Flats,  over  against 
the  elevated  portion  of  the  New  York  Central  Rail 
road. 

"When  the  order  come  to  the  fiats  that  all  hands 
must  turn  out  and  sleep  in  the  park,  according  to  the 
instructions  of  the  consulting  committee  of  the  City 
Club  and  the  Murphy  Draying,  Returfing  and  Sod 
ding  Company,  there  was  a  look  of  a  couple  of  fires 
and  an  eviction  all  over  the  place. 

"The  tenants  began  to  pack  up  feather  beds,  rub 
ber  boots,  strings  of  garlic,  hot-water  bags,  portable 
canoes  and  scuttles  of  coal  to  take  along  for  the 
sake  of  comfort.  The  sidewalk  looked  like  a  Russian 
camp  in  Oyama's  line  of  march.  There  was  wailing 
and  lamenting  up  and  down  stairs  from  Danny  Geog- 
hegan's  flat  on  the  top  floor  to  the  apartments  of 
Missis  Goldsteinupski  on  the  first. 

"  'For  why,'  saj-s  Danny,  coming  down  and  raging 
in  his  blue  yarn  socks  to  the  janitor,  'should  I  be 
turned  out  of  me  comfortable  apartmints  to  lay  in 
the  dirty  grass  like  a  rabbit?  'Tis  like  Jerome  to 


The  City  of  Dreadful  Night        143 

stir  up  trouble  wid  small  matters  like  this  instead 
of " 

"  *Whist !'  says  Officer  Reagan  on  the  sidewalk, 
rapping  with  his  club.  *  'Tis  not  Jerome.  'Tis  by 
order  of  the  Polis  Commissioner.  Turn  out  every 
one  of  yez  and  hike  yerselvcs  to  the  park.' 

"Now,  'twas  a  peaceful  and  happy  home  that  all 
of  us  had  in  them  same  Beersheba  Flats.  The 
O'Dowds  and  the  Steinowitzes  and  the  Callahans  and 
the  Cohens  and  the  Spizzinellis  and  the  McManuscs 
and  the  Spiegel  may  ers  and  the  Joneses  —  all  the  na 
tions  of  us,  we  lived  like  one  big  family  together. 
And  when  the  hot  nights  come  along  we  kept  a  line  of 
childher  reaching  from  the  front  door  to  Kelly's  on 
the  corner,  passing  along  the  cans  of  beer  from  one  to 
another  without  the  trouble  of  running  after  it.  And 
with  no  more  clothing  on  than  is  provided  for  in  the 
statutes,  sitting  in  all  the  windies,  with  a  cool  growler 
in  every  one,  and  your  feet  out  in  the  air,  and  the 
Rosenstein  girls  singing  on  the  fire-escape  of  the  sixth 
floor,  and  Patsy  Rourke's  flute  going  in  the  eighth, 
and  the  ladies  calling  each  other  synonyms  out  the 
windies,  and  now  and  then  a  breeze  sailing  in  over 
Mister  Depew's  Central  —  I  tell  }TOU  the  Beersheba 
Flats  was  a  summer  resort  that  made  the  Catskills 
look  like  a  hole  in  the  ground.  With  his  person  fall 
of  beer  and  his  feet  out  the  windy  and  his  old  woman 
frying  pork  chops  over  a  charcoal  furnace  and  the 


144  The  Voice  of  the  City 

childher  dancing  in  cotton  slips  on  the  sidewalk  around 
the  organ-grinder  and  the  rent  paid  for  a  week  — 
what  does  a  man  want  better  on  a  hot  night  than 
that?  And  then  comes  this  ruling  of  the  polis  driv 
ing  people  out  o'  their  comfortable  homes  to  sleep  in 
parks  — 'twas  for  all  the  world  like  a  ukase  of  them 
Russians — 'twill  be  heard  from  again  at  next  election 
time. 

"Well,  then,  Officer  Reagan  drives  the  whole  lot  of 
us  to  the  park  and  turns  us  in  by  the  nearest  gate. 
'Tis  dark  under  the  trees,  and  all  the  childher  sets 
up  to  howling  that  they  want  to  go  home. 

"  'Ye'll  pass  the  night  in  this  stretch  of  woods  and 
scenery,'  says  Officer  Reagan.  *  'Twill  be  fine  and 
imprisonment  for  insoolting  the  Park  Commissioner 
and  the  Chief  of  the  Weather  Bureau  if  ye  refuse. 
I'm  in  charge  of  thirty  acres  between  here  and  the 
Agyptian  Monument,  and  I  advise  ye  to  give  no 
trouble.  'Tis  sleeping  on  the  grass  yez  all  have  been 
condemned  to  by  the  authorities.  Yez'll  be  permitted 
to  leave  in  the  morning,  but  ye  must  retoorn  be  night. 
Me  orders  was  silent  on  the  subject  of  bail,  but  I'll 
find  out  if  'tis  required  and  there'll  be  bondsmen  at 
the  gate.' 

"There  being  no  lights  except  along  the  automobile 
drives,  us  179  tenants  of  the  Beersheba  Flats  pre 
pared  to  spend  the  night  as  best  we  could"  in  the 
raging  forest.  Them  that  brought  blankets  and  kin- 


The  City  of  Dreadful  Night        145 

dling  wood  was  best  off.  They  got  fires  started  and 
wrapped  the  blankets  round  their  heads  and  laid 
down,  cursing,  in  the  grass.  There  was  nothing  to 
see,  nothing  to  drink,  nothing  to  do.  In  the  dark  we 
had  no  way  of  telling  friend  or  foe  except  by  feeling 
the  noses  of  'em.  I  brought  along  me  last  winter 
overcoat,  me  tooth-brush,  some  quinine  pills  and  the 
red  quilt  off  the  bed  in  me  flat.  Three  times  during 
the  night  somebody  rolled  on  me  quilt  and  stuck  his 
knees  against  the  Adam's  apple  of  me.  And  three 
times  I  judged  his  character  by  running  me  hand  over 
his  face,  and  three  times  I  rose  up  and  kicked  the 
intruder  down  the  hill  to  the  gravelly  walk  below. 
Arid  then  some  one  with  a  flavor  of  Kelly's  whiskey 
snuggled  up  to  me,  and  I  found  his  nose  turned  up 
the  right  way,  and  I  says :  'Is  that  you,  then,  Patsey  ?' 
and  he  says,  'It  is,  Carney.  How  long  do  you  think 
it'll  last?' 

"  Tin  no  weather-prophet,'  says  I,  'but  if  they 
bring  out  a  strong  anti-Tammany  ticket  next  fall  it 
ought  to  get  us  home  in  time  to  sleep  on  a  bed  once 
or  twice  before  they  line  us  up  at  the  polls.' 

"'A-playing  of  my  flute  into  the  airshaft,'  says 
Patsev  liourke,  'and  a-perspiring  in  me  own  windy 
to  the  joyful  noise  of  the  passing  trains  and  the 
smell  of  liver  and  onions  and  a-reading  of  the  latest 
murder  in  the  smoke  of  the  cooking  is  well  enough  for 
me,'  says  he.  'What  is  this  herding  us  in  grass  for, 


146  The  Voice  of  the  City 

not  to  mention  the  crawling  things  with  legs  that  walk 
up  the  trousers  of  us,  and  the  Jersey  snipes  that 
peck  at  us,  masquerading  under  the  name  and  denomi 
nation  of  mosquitoes.  What  is  it  all  for,  Carney,  and 
the  rint  going  on  just  the  same  over  at  the  flats?' 

"  *  'Tis  the  great  annual  Municipal  Free  Night 
Outing  Lawn  Party,'  says  I,  'given  by  the  polis, 
Hetty  Green  and  the  Drug  Trust.  During  the 
heated  season  they  hold  a  week  of  it  in  the  principal 
parks.  'Tis  a  scheme  to  reach  that  portion  of  the 
people  that's  not  worth  taking  up  to  North  Beach 
for  a  fish  fry.' 

"  'I  can't  sleep  on  the  ground,'  sa3's  Patsey,  'wid 
any  benefit.  I  have  the  hay  fever  and  the  rheuma 
tism,  and  me  ear  is  full  of  ants.' 

"Well,  the  night  goes  on,  and  the  ex-tenants  of 
the  Flats  groans  and  stumbles  around  in  the  dark, 
trying  to  find  rest  and  recreation  in  the  forest.  The 
childher  is  screaming  with  the  coldness,  and  the  jan 
itor  makes  hot  tea  for  'em  and  keeps  the  fires  going 
with  the  signboards  that  point  to  the  Tavern  and  the 
Casino.  The  tenants  try  to  lay  down  on  the  grass 
by  families  in  the  dark,  but  you're  lucky  if  you  can 
sleep  next  to  a  man  from  the  same  floor  or  believing 
in  the  same  religion.  Now  and  then  a  Murphy,  acci 
dental,  rolls  over  on  the  grass  of  a  Rosonstein,  or  M 
Cohen  tries  to  crawl  under  the  O'Grady  bush,  and 
then  there's  a  feeling  of  noses  and  somebody  is  rolled 


The  City  of  Dreadful  Night        147 

down  the  hill  to  the  driveway  and  stays  there.  There 
is  some  hair-pulling  among  the  women  folks,  and 
everybody  spanks  the  nearest  howling  kid  to  him  by 
the  sense  of  feeling  only,  regardless  of  its  parentage 
and  ownership.  'Tis  hard  to  keep  up  the  social  dis 
tinctions  in  the  dark  that  flourish  by  da}'light  in  the 
Beersheba  Flats.  Mrs.  Rafferty,  that  despises  the 
asphalt  that  a  Dago  treads  on,  wrakes  up  in  the  morn 
ing  with  her  feet  in  the  bosom  of  Antonio  Spizzinelli. 
And  Mike  O'Dowd,  that  always  threw  peddlers  down 
stairs  as  fast  as  he  came  upon  'em,  has  to  unwind  old 
Isaacstein's  whiskers  from  around  his  neck,  and  wake 
up  the  whole  gang  at  daylight.  But  here  and  there 
some  few  got  acquainted  and  overlooked  the  discom 
forts  of  the  elements.  There  was  five  engagements  to 
be  niarried  announced  at  the  flats  the  next  morning. 

"About  midnight  I  gets  up  and  wrings  the  dew  out 
of  my  hair,  and  goes  to  the  side  of  the  driveway  and 
sits  down.  At  one  side  of  the  park  I  could  see  the 
lights  in  the  streets  and  houses;  and  I  was  thinking 
how  happy  them  folks  was  who  could  chase  the  duck 
and  smoke  their  pipes  at  their  windows,  and  keep  cool 
and  pleasant  like  nature  intended  for  'em  to. 

"Just  then  an  automobile  stops  by  me,  and  a  fine- 
looking,  well-dressed  man  steps  out. 

"  'Me  man,'  says  he,  'can  you  tell  me  why  all  these 
people  are  Iving  around  on  the  grass  in  the  park? 
I  thought  it  was  against  the  rules.' 


The  Voice  of  the  City 

""Twas  an  ordinance,'  says  I,  'just  passed  by 
the  Polls  Department  and  ratified  by  the  Turf  Cut 
ters'  Association,  providing  that  all  persons  not 
carrying  a  license  number  on  their  rear  axles  shall 
keep  in  the  public  parks  until  further  notice.  Fortu 
nately,  the  orders  comes  this  year  during  a  spell  of 
fine  weather,  and  the  mortality,  except  on  the  borders 
of  the  lake  and  along  the  automobile  drives,  will  not 
be  any  greater  than  usual.' 

"'Who  are  these  people  on  the  side  of  the  hill?' 
asks  the  man. 

"4Sure,'  says  I,  'none  others  than  the  tenants  of 
the  Beersheba  Flats  —  a  fine  home  for  any  man,  espe 
cially  on  hot  nights.  May  daylight  come  soon !' 

"  'They  come  here  be  night,'  says  he,  'and  breathe 
in  the  pure  air  and  the  fragrance  of  the  flowers  and 
trees.  They  do  that,'  says  he,  'coming  every  night 
from  the  burning  heat  of  dwellings  of  brick  arid  stone.' 

'"And  wood,'  says  I,  'And  marble  and  plaster 
and  iron.' 

"  'The  matter  will  be  attended  to  at  once,'  says  the 
man,  putting  up  his  book. 

"'Are  ye  the  Park  Commissioner?'  I  asks. 

"  'I  own  the  Beersheba  Flats,'  says  he.  'God  bless 
the  grass  and  the  trees  that  give  extra  benefits  to  a 
man's  tenants.  The  rents  shall  be  raised  fifteen  per 
cent,  to-morrow.  Good-night,'  says  he." 


THE  EASTER  OF  THE  SOUL 

IT  is  hardly  likely  that  a  goddess  may  die.  Then 
Eastre,  the  old  Saxon  goddess  of  spring,  must  be 
laughing  in  her  muslin  sleeve  at  people  .who  believe 
that  Easter,  her  namesake,  exists  only  along  certain 
strips  of  Fifth  Avenue  pavement  after  church  service. 

Aye !  It  belongs  to  the  world.  The  ptarmigan  in 
Chilkoot  Pass  discards  his  winter  white  feathers  for 
brown;  the  Patagonian  Beau  Brummell  oils  his  chi 
gnon  and  clubs  him  another  sweetheart  to  drag  to  his 
skull-strewn  fiat.  And  down  in  Chrystie  Street  — 

Mr.  "Tiger"  McQuirk  arose  with  a  feeling  of  dis 
quiet  that  he  did  not  understand.  With  a  practised 
foot  he  rolled  three  of  his  younger  brothers  like  logs 
out  of  his  way  as  they  lay  sleeping  on  the  floor. 
Before  a  foot-square  looking  glass  that  hung  by  the 
window  he  stood  and  shaved  himself.  If  that  may 
seem  to  you  a  task  too  slight  to  be  thus  impressively 
chronicled,  I  bear  with  you ;  you  do  not  know  of  the 
areas  to  be  accomplished  in  traversing  the  cheek  and 
chin  of  Mr.  McQuirk. 

McQuirk,  senior,  had  gone  to  work  long  before. 
The  big  son  of  the  house  was  idle.  He  was  a  marble- 
cutter,  and  the  marble-cutters  were  out  on  a  strike. 

"What  ails  ye?"  asked  his  mother,  looking  at  him 
149 


150  The  Voice  of  the  City 

curiously ;  "are  ye  not  feeling  well  the  morning, 
maybe  now?" 

"He's  thinking  along  of  Annie  Maria  Doyle,"  im 
pudently  explained  younger  brother  Tim,  ten  years 
old. 

"Tiger"  reached  over  the  hand  of  a  champion  and 
swept  the  small  McQuirk  from  his  chair. 

"1  feel  fine,"  said  he,  "beyond  a  touch  of  the  1- 
don't-know-what-you-call-its.  I  feel  like  there  was 
going  to  be  earthquakes  or  music  or  a  trifle  of  chills 
and  fever  or  maybe  a  picnic.  I  don't  know  how  T 
feel.  I  feel  like  knocking  the  face  off  a  policeman, 
or  else  maybe  like  playing  Coney  Island  straight 
across  the  board  from  pop-corn  to  the  elephant 
houdahs." 

"It's  the  spring  in  yer  bones,"  said  Mrs.  McQuirk. 
"It's  the  sap  risin'.  Time  was  when  I  couldn't  keep 
me  feet  still  nor  me  head  cool  when  the  earthworms 
began  to  crawl  out  in  the  dew  of  the  mornin'.  'Tis 
a  bit  of  tea  will  do  ye  good,  made  from  pipsissewa 
and  gentian  bark  at  the  druggist's." 

"Back  up !"  said  Mr.  McQuirk,  impatiently. 
"There's  no  spring  in  sight.  There's  snow  yet  on  the 
shed  in  Donovan's  backyard.  And  yesterday  they 
puts  open  cars  on  the  Sixth  Avenue  lines,  and  the 
janitors  have  quit  ordering  coal.  And  that  means 
six  weeks  more  of  winter,  by  all  the  signs  that  be." 

After  breakfast  Mr.  McQuirk  spent  fifteen  min- 


The  Easter  of  the  Soul  151 

utcs  before  the  corrugated  mirror,  subjugating  his 
hair  and  arranging  his  green-and-purple  ascot  with 
its  amethyst  tombstone  pin  —  eloquent  of  his  chosen 
calling. 

Since  the  strike  had  been  called  it  was  this  par 
ticular  striker's  habit  to  hie  himself  each  morning  to 
the  corner  saloon  of  Flaherty  Brothers,  and  there 
establish  himself  upon  the  sidewalk,  with  one  foot 
resting  on  the  bootblack's  stand,  observing  the 
panorama  of  the  street  until  the  pace  of  time  brought 
twelve  o'clock  and  the  dinner  hour.  And  Mr. 
"Tiger"  McQuirk,  with  his  athletic  seventy  inches, 
well  trained  in  sport  and  battle;  his  smooth,  pale, 
solid,  amiable  face- — blue  where  the  razor  had  trav 
elled;  his  carefully  considered  clothes  and  air  of  capa 
bility,  was  himself  a  spectacle  not  displeasing  to  the 
eye. 

But  on  this  morning  Mr.  McQuirk  did  not  hasten 
immediately  to  his  post  of  leisure  and  observation. 
Something  unusual  that  he  could  not  quite  grasp  was 
in  the  air.  Something  disturbed  his  thoughts,  ruf 
fled  his  senses,  made  him  at  once  languid,  irritable, 
elated,  dissatisfied  and  sportive.  He  was  no  diagnos 
tician,  and  he  did  not  know  that  Lent  was  breaking 
up  physiologically  in  his  system. 

Mrs,  McQuirk  had  spoken  of  spring.  Sceptically 
"Tiger"  looked  about  him  for  signs.  Few  they  were. 
The  organ-grinders  were  at  work;  but  they  were  al- 


152  The  Voice  of  the  City 

ways  precocious  harbingers.  It  was  near  enough 
spring  for  them  to  go  penny-hunting  when  the  skat 
ing  ball  dropped  at  the  park.  In  the  milliners' 
windows  Easter  hats,  grave,  gay  and  jubilant,  blos 
somed.  There  were  green  patches  among  the  side 
walk  debris  of  the  grocers.  On  a  third-story  window- 
sill  the  first  elbow  cushion  of  the  season  —  old  gold 
stripes  on  a  crimson  ground  —  supported  the  kimo- 
noed  arms  of  a  pensive  brunette.  The  wind  blew 
cold  from  the  East  River,  but  the  sparrows  were  fly 
ing  to  the  eaves  with  straws.  A  second-hand  store, 
combining  foresight  with  faith,  had  set  out  an  ice- 
chest  and  baseball  goods. 

And  then  "Tiger's"  eye,  discrediting  these  signs, 
fell  upon  one  that  bore  a  bud  of  promise.  From  a 
bright,  new  lithograph  the  head  of  Capricornus  con 
fronted  him,  betokening  the  forward  and  heady  brew. 

Mr.  McQuirk  entered  the  saloon  and  called  for  his 
glass  of  bock.  He  threw  his  nickel  on  the  bar,  raised 
the  glass,  set  it  down  without  tasting  it  and  strolled 
toward  the  door. 

"Wot's  the  matter,  Lord  Bolinbroke?"  inquired 
the  sarcastic  bartender ;  "want  a  chiny  vase  or  a 
gold-lined  epergne  to  drink  it  out  of —  hey?" 

"Say,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk,  wheeling  and  shooting 
out  a  horizontal  hand  and  a  forty-five-degree  chin, 
"you  know  your  place  only  when  it  comes  for  givin' 
titles.  I've  changed  me  mind  about  drinkin' — see? 


The  Easter  of  the  Soul  153 

You  got  your  money,  ain't  you?  Wait  till  you  get 
stung  before  you  get  the  droop  to  your  lip,  will 
you?" 

Thus  Mr.  Quirk  added  mutability  of  desires  to  the 
strange  humors  that  had  taken  possession  of  him. 

Leaving  the  saloon,  he  walked  away  twenty  steps 
and  leaned  in  the  open  doorway  of  Lutz,  the  barber. 
He  and  Lutz  were  friends,  masking  their  sentiments 
behind  abuse  and  bludgeons  of  repartee. 

"Irish  loafer,"  roared  Lutz,  "how  do  you  do? 
So,  not  yet  haf  der  bolicemans  or  der  catcher  of 
dogs  done  deir  duty !" 

"Hello,  Dutch,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk.  "Can't  get 
your  mind  off  of  frankfurters,  can  you?" 

"Bah !"  exclaimed  the  German,  coming  and  leaning 
in  the  door.  "I  haf  a  soul  above  frankfurters  to 
day.  Dere  is  springtime  in  der  air.  I  can  feel  it 
corning  in  ofer  der  mud  of  der  streets  and  das  ice 
in  der  river.  Soon  will  dere  be  bicnics  in  der  islands, 
mit  kegs  of  beer  under  der  trees." 

"Say,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk,  setting  his  hat  on  one 
side,  "is  everybody  kiddin'  me  about  gentle  Spring? 
There  ain't  any  more  spring  in  the  air  than  there 
is  in  a  horsehair  sofa  in  a  Second  Avenue  furnished 
room.  For  me  the  winter  underwear  yet  and  the 
buckwheat  cakes." 

"You  haf  no  boetry,"  said  Lutz.  "True,  it  is  yedt 
cold,  und  in  der  city  we  haf  not  many  of  der  signs ; 


154  The  Voice  of  the  City 

but  dere  are  dree  kinds  of  beoble  dot  should  always 
feel  der  approach  of  spring  first  —  dey  are  boets, 
lovers  and  poor  vidows." 

Mr.  McQuirk  went  on  his  way,  still  possessed  by 
the  strange  perturbation  that  he  did  not  understand. 
Something  was  lacking  to  his  comfort,  and  it  made 
him  half  angry  because  he  did  not  know  what  it  was. 

Two  blocks  away  he  came  upon  a  foe,  one  Conover, 
whom  he  was  bound  in  honor  to  engage  in  combat. 

Mr.  McQuirk  made  the  attack  with  the  character 
istic  suddenness  and  fierceness  that  had  gained  for 
him  the  endearing  sobriquet  of  "Tiger."  The  de 
fence  of  Mr.  Conover  was  so  prompt  and  admirable 
that  the  conflict  was  protracted  until  the  onlookers 
unselfishly  gave  the  warning  cry  of  "Cheese  it  —  the 
cop  1"  The  principals  escaped  easily  b}T  running 
through  the  nearest  open  doors  into  the  communi 
cating  backyards  at  the  rear  of  the  houses. 

Mr.  McQuirk  emerged  into  another  street.  He 
stood  by  a  lamp-post  for  a  few  minutes  engaged  in 
thought  and  then  he  turned  and  plunged  into  a  small 
notion  and  news  shop.  A  red-haired  young  woman, 
eating  gum-drops,  came  and  looked  freezingly  at  him 
across  the  ice-bound  steppes  of  the  counter. 

"Say,  lady,"  he  said,  "have  you  got  a  song  book 
with  this  in  it?     Let's  see  how  it  leads  off — 
"When  the  springtime  comes  we'll  wander  in  the  dale,  love, 

And  whisper  of  those  days  of  yore 

"I'm  having  a  friend,"  explained  Mr.  McQuirk, 


The  Easter  of  the  Soul  155 

"laid  up  with  a  broken  leg,  and  he  sent  me  after  it. 
He's  a  devil  for  songs  and  poetry  when  he  can't  get 
out  to  drink." 

"We  have  not,"  replied  the  young  woman,  with  un 
concealed  contempt.     "But  there  is  a  new  song  out 
that  begins  this  way: 
"•Lot  us  sit  together  in  the  old  arm-chair; 

And  while  the  firelight  flickers  we'll  be  comfortable  there.'" 

There  will  be  no  profit  in  following  Mr.  "Tiger" 
McQuirk  through  his  further  vagaries  of  that  day 
until  he  comes  to  stand  knocking  at  the  door  of 
Annie  Maria  Doyle.  The  goddess  Eastre,  it  seems, 
had  guided  his  footsteps  aright  at  last. 

"Is  that  you  now,  Jimmy  McQuirk?"  she  cried, 
smiling  through  the  opened  door  (Anna  Maria  had 
never  accepted  the  "Tiger").  "Well,  whatever!" 

"Come  out  in  the  hall,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk.  "I 
want  to  ask  }'our  opinion  of  the  weather  —  on  the 
level." 

"'Are  you  crazy,  sure?"  said  Annie  Maria. 

"I  am,"  said  the  "Tiger."  "They've  been  telling 
me  all  day  there  was  spring  in  the  air.  Were  they 
liars?  Or  am  I?" 

"Dear  me !"  said  Annie  Maria  — "haven't  you  no 
ticed  it?  I  can  almost  smell  the  violets.  And  the 
green  grass.  Of  course,  there  ain't  any  }Tet  —  it's 
just  a  kind  of  feeling,  you  know." 

"That's  what  I'm  getting  at,"  said  Mr.  McQuirk. 
"I've  had  it.  I  .didn't  recognize  it  at  first.  I 


156  The  Voice  of  the  City 

thought  maybe  it  was  en-wee,  contracted  the  other 
day  when  I  stepped  above  Fourteenth  Street.  But 
the  katzen jammer  I've  got  don't  spell  violets.  It 
spells  yer  own  name,  Annie  Maria,  and  it's  you  I 
want.  I  go  to  work  next  Monday,  and  I  make  four 
dollars  a  day.  Spiel  up,  old  girl  —  do  we  make  a 
team?" 

"Jimmy,"  sighed  Annie  Maria,  suddenly  disap 
pearing  in  his  overcoat,  "don't  you  see  that  spring 
is  all  over  the  world  right  this  minute?" 

But  you  yourself  remember  how  that  day  ended. 
Beginning  with  so  fine  a  promise  of  vernal  things, 
late  in  the  afternoon  the  air  chilled  and  an  inch  of 
snow  fell  —  even  so  late  in  March.  On  Fifth  Ave 
nue  the  ladies  drew  their  winter  furs  close  about 
them.  Only  in  the  florists'  windows  could  be  per 
ceived  any  signs  of  the  morning  smile  of  the  coming 
goddess  Eastre. 

At  six  o'clock  Herr  Lutz  began  to  close  his  shop. 
He  heard  a  well-known  shout :  "Hello,  Dutch !" 

"Tiger"  McQuirk,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  with  his  hat 
on  the  back  of  his  head,  stood  outside  in  the  whirling 
snow,  puffing  at  a  black  cigar. 

"Donnerwetter !"  shouted  Lutz,  "der  vinter,  he  has 
come  back  again  yet !" 

"Yer  a  liar,  Dutch,"  called  back  Mr.  McQuirk, 
with  friendly  geniality,  "it's  springtime,  by  the 
watch." 


TPIE  FOOL-KILLER 

DOWN 'South  whenever  any  one  perpetrates  some 
particularly  monumental  piece  of  foolishness  every 
body  says:  "Send  for  Jesse  Holmes." 

Jesse  Holmes  is  the  Fool-Killer.  Of  course  he  is  a 
myth,  like  Santa  Claus  and  Jack  Frost  and  General 
Prosperity  and  all  those  concrete  conceptions  that 
are  supposed  to  represent  an  idea  that  Nature  has 
.  failed  to  embody.  The  wisest  of  the  Southrons  can 
not  tell  you  whence  comes  the  Fool-Killer's  name ; 
but  few  and  happy  are  the  households  from  the  Ro- 
anoke  to  the  Rio  Grande  in  which  the  name  of  Jesse 
Holmes  has  not  been  pronounced  or  invoked.  Always 
with  a  smile,  and  often  with  a  tear,  is  he  summoned 
to  his  official  duty.  A  busy  man  is  Jesse  Holmes. 

I  remember  the  clear  picture  of  him  that  hung  on 
the  walls  of  my  fancy  during  my  barefoot  days  when 
I  was  dodging  his  oft-threatened  devoirs.  To  me 
he  was  a  terrible  old  man,  in  gray  clothes,  with  a 
long,  ragged,  gray  beard,  and  reddish,  fierce  eyes. 
I  looked  to  see  him  come  stumping  up  the  road  in 
a  cloud  of  dust,  with  a  white  oak  staff  in  his  hand 
and  his  shoes  tied  with  leather  thongs.  I  may 

yet 

157 


158  The  Voice  of  the  City 

But  this  is  a  story,  not  a  sequel. 

I  have  taken  notice  with  regret,  that  few  stories 
worth  reading  have  been  written  that  did  not  con 
tain  drink  of  some  sort.  Down  go  the  fluids,  from 
Arizona  Dick's  three  fingers  of  red  pizcn  to  the  in 
efficacious  Oolong  that  nerves  Lionel  Montressor  to 
repartee  in  the  "Dotty  Dialogues."  So,  in  such  good 
company  I  may  introduce  an  absinthe  drip  —  one 
absinthe  drip,  dripped  through  a  silver  dripper,  or 
derly,  opalescent,  cool,  green-eyed  —  deceptive. 

Kerner  was  a  fool.  Besides  that,  he  was  an  artist 
and  my  good  friend.  Now,  if  there  is  one  thing  on 
earth  utterly  despicable  to  another,  it  is  an  artist 
in  the  eyes  of  an  author  whose  story  he  has  illus 
trated.  Just  try  it  once.  Write  a  story  about  a 
mining  camp  in  Idaho.  Sell  it.  Spend  the  money, 
anil  then,  six  months  later,  borrow  a  quarter  (or  a 
dime),  and  buy  the  magazine  containing  it.  You 
find  a  full-page  wash  drawing  of  your  hero,  Black 
Bill,  the  cowboy.  Somewhere  in  your  story  you  em 
ployed  the  word  "horse."  Aha!  the  artist  has 
grasped  the  idea.  Black  Bill  has  on  the  regulation 
trousers  of  the  M.  F.  H.  of  the  Westchester  County 
Hunt.  He  carries  a  parlor  rifie,  and  wears  a  mono 
cle.  In  the  distance  is  a  section  of  Forty-second 
Street  during  a  search  for  a  lost  gas-pipe,  and  the 
Taj  Mahal,  the  famous  mausoleum  in  India. 

Enough !     I  hated  Kerner,  and  one  day  I  met  him 


The  Fool-killer  159 

and  we  became  friends.  He  was  young  and  glori 
ously  melancholy  because  his  spirits  were  so  high  and 
life  had  so  much  in  store  for  him.  Yes,  he  was  al 
most  riotously  sad.  That  was  his  youth.  When  a 
man  begins  to  be  hilarious  in  a  sorrowful  way  you 
can  bet  a  million  that  he  is  dyeing  his  hair.  Ker- 
ner's  hair  was  plentiful  and  carefully  matted  as  an 
artist's  thatch  should  be.  He  was  a  cigaretteur,  and 
he  audited  his  dinners  with  red  wine.  But,  most  of 
all,  he  was  a  fool.  And,  wisely,  I  envied  him,  and 
listened  patiently  while  he  knocked  Velasquez  and 
Tintoretto.  Once  he  told  me  that  he  liked  a  story  of 
mine  that  he  had  come  across  in  an  anthology.  He 
described  it  to  me,  and  I  was  sorry  that  Mr.  Fitz- 
James  O'Brien  was  dead  and  could  not  learn  of  the 
eulogy  of  his  work.  But  mostly  Kerner  made  few 
breaks  and  was  a  consistent  fool. 

I'd  better  explain  what  I  mean  by  that.  There 
was  a  girl.  Now,  a  girl,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
is  a  thing  that  belongs  in  a  seminary  or  an  album ; 
but  I  conceded  the  existence  of  the  animal  in  order 
to  retain  Kerner's  friendship.  He  showed  me  her 
picture  in  a  locket  —  she  was  a  blonde  or  a  brunette 
—  1  have  forgotten  which.  She  worked  in  a  factory 
for  eight  dollars  a  week.  Lest  factories  quote  this 
wage  by  way  of  vindication,  I  will  add  that  the  girl 
had  worked  for  five  years  to  reach  that  supreme  ele 
vation  of  remuneration,  beginning  at  $1.50  per  week. 


160  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Kerner's  father  was  worth  a  couple  of  millions. 
He  was  willing  to  stand  for  art,  but  he  drew  the 
line  at  the  factory  girl.  So  Kerner  disinherited  his 
father  and  walked  out  to  a  cheap  studio  and  lived 
on  sausages  for  breakfast  and  on  Farroni  for  dinner. 
Farroni  had  the  artistic  soul  and  a  line  of  credit 
for  painters  and  poets,  nicely  adjusted.  Sometimes 
Kerner  sold  a  picture  and  bought  some  new  tapestry, 
a  ring  and  a  dozen  silk  cravats,  and  paid  Farroni 
two  dollars  on  account. 

One  evening  Kerner  had  me  to  dinner  with  himself 
and  the  factory  girl.  They  were  to  be  married  as 
soon  as  Kerner  could  slosh  paint  profitably.  As  for 
the  ex- father's  two  millions  —  pouf ! 

She  was  a  wonder.  Small  and  half-way  pretty, 
and  as  much  at  her  ease  in  that  cheap  cafe  as  though 
she  were  only  in  the  Palmer  House,  Chicago,  with  a 
souvenir  spoon  already  safely  hidden  in  her  shirt 
waist.  She  was  natural.  Two  things  I  noticed 
about  her  especially.  Her  belt  buckle  was  exactly  in 
the  middle  of  her  back,  and  she  didn't  tell  us  that  a 
large  man  with  a  ruby  stick-pin  had  followed  her  up 
all  the  way  from  Fourteenth  Street.  Was  Kerner 
such  a  fool?  I  wondered.  And  then  I  thought  of 
the  quantity  of  striped  cuffs  and  blue  glass  beads 
that  $2,000,000  can  buy  for  the  heathen,  and  I  said 
to  myself  that  he  was.  And  then  Elise  —  certainly 
that  was  her  name  —  told  us,  merrily,  that  the  brown 


The  Fool-killer  1G1 

spot  on  her  waist  was  caused  by  her  landlady  knock 
ing  at  the  door  while  she  (the  girl  —  confound  the 
English  language)  was  heating  an  iron  over  the  gas 
jet,  and  she  hid  the  iron  under  the  bedclothes  until 
the  coast  was  clear,  and  there  was  the  piece  of  chew 
ing  gum  stuck  to  it  when  she  began  to  iron  the  waist, 
and  —  well,  I  wondered  how  in  the  world  the  chewing 
gum  came  to  be  there  —  don't  they  ever  stop  chew 
ing  it? 

A  while  after  that  —  don't  be  impatient,  the  ab 
sinthe  drip  is  coming  now  —  Kerner  and  I  were  dining 
at  Farroni's.  A  mandolin  and  a  guitar  were  being 
attacked ;  the  room  was  full  of  smoke  in  nice,  long 
crinkly  layers  just  like  the  artists  draw  the  steam 
from  a  plum  pudding  on  Christmas  posters,  and  a 
ladj^  in  a  blue  silk  and  gasolined  gauntlets  was  be 
ginning  to  hum  an  air  from  the  Catskills. 

"Kerner,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  fool." 

"Of  course,"  said  Kerner,  "I  wouldn't  let  her  go 
on  working.  Not  my  wife.  What's  the  use  to  wait? 
She's  willing.  I  sold  that  water  color  of  the  Pali 
sades  yesterday.  We  could  cook  on  a  two-burner  gas 
stove.  You  know  the  ragouts  I  can  throw  together? 
Yes,  I  think  we  will  marry  next  week." 

"Kerner,"  said  I,  "you  are  a  fool." 

"Have  an  absinthe  drip?"  said  Kerner,  grandly. 
"To-night  you  are  the  guest  of  Art  in  paying  quan 
tities.  I  think  we  will  get  a  fiat  with  a  bath." 


l(>-2  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"I  never  tried  one  —  I  mean  an  absinthe  drip," 
said  I. 

The  waiter  brought  it  and  poured  the  water  slowly 
over  the  ice  in  the  dripper. 

"It  looks  exactly  like  the  Mississippi  River  water 
in  the  big  bend  below  Natchez,"  said  I,  fascinated, 
gazing  at  the  be-rmiddled  drip. 

"There  are  such  flats  for  eight  dollars  a  week,"' 
said  Kerner. 

"You  are  a  fool,"  said  I,  and  began  to  sip  the 
filtration.  "What  you  need,"  I  continued,  "is  the 
official  attention  of  one  Jesse  Holmes." 

Kerner,  not  being  a  Southerner,  did  not  compre 
hend,  so  he  sat,  sentimental,  figuring  on  his  flat  in 
his  sordid,  artistic  way,  while  I  gazed  into  the  green 
eyes  of  the  sophisticated  Spirit  of  Wormwood. 

Presently  I  noticed  casually  that  a  procession  of 
bacchantes  limned  on  the  wall  immediately  below  the 
ceiling  had  begun  to  move,  traversing  the  room  from 
right  to  left  in  a  gay  and  spectacular  pilgrimage. 
I  did  not  confide  my  discovery  to  Kerner.  The  artis 
tic  temperament  is  too  high-strung  to  view  devia 
tions  from  the  natural  laws  of  the  art  of  kalsomining. 
I  sipped  my  absinthe  drip  and  sawed  wormwood. 

One  absinthe  drip  is  not  much  —  but  I  said  again 
to  Kerner,  kindly : 

"You  are  a  fool."  And  then,  in  the  vernacular: 
"Jesse  Holmes  for  yours." 


The  Fool-killer  163 

And  then  I  looked  around  and  saw  the  Fool-Killer, 
as  he  had  always  appeared  to  my  imagination,  sitting 
at  a  nearby  table,  and  regarding  us  with  his  reddish, 
fatal,  relentless  eyes.  He  was  Jesse  Holmes  from  top 
to  toe ;  he  had  the  long,  gray,  ragged  beard,  the 
gray  clothes  of  ancient  cut,  the  executioner's  look, 
and  the  dusty  shoes  of  one  who  had  been  called  from 
afar.  His  eyes  were  turned  fixedly  upon  Kerner.  I 
shuddered  to  think  that  I  had  invoked  him  from  his 
assiduous  southern  duties.  I  thought  of  flying,  arid 
then  I  kept  my  seat,  reflecting  that  many  men  had  es 
caped  his  ministrations  when  it  seemed  that  nothing 
short  of  an  appointment  as  Ambassador  to  Spain 
could  save  thorn  from  him.  I  had  called  my  brother 
Kerner  a  fool  arid  was  in  danger  of  hell  fire.  That 
was  nothing ;  but  I  would  try  to  save  him  from  Jesse 
Holmes. 

The  Fool-Killer  got  up  from  his  table  and  came 
over  to  ours.  He  rested  his  hands  upon  it,  and 
turned  his  burning,  vindictive  eyes  upon  Kerner,  ig 
noring  me. 

"You  are  a  hopeless  fool,"  he  said  to  the  artist. 
"Haven't  you  had  enough  of  starvation  yet?  I  of 
fer  you  one  more  opportunity.  Give  up  this  girl  and 
come  back  to  your  home.  Refuse,  and  you  must  take 
the  consequences." 

The  Fool-Killer's  threatening  face  was  within  a 
foot  of  his  victim's;  but- to  my  horror,  Kerner  made 


164  The  Voice  of  the  City 

not  the  slightest  sign  of  being  aware  of  his  presence. 

"We  will  be  married  next  week,"  he  muttered  ab 
sent-mindedly.  "With  my  studio  furniture  and  some 
second-hand  stuff  we  can  make  out." 

"You  have  decided  your  own  fate,"  said  the  Fool- 
Killer,  in  a  low  but  terrible  voice.  "You  may  con 
sider  yourself  as  one  dead.  You  have  had  your  last 
chance." 

"In  the  moonlight,"  went  on  Kerner,  softly,  "we 
will  sit  under  the  skylight  with  our  guitar  and  sing 
away  the  false  delights  of  pride  and  money." 

"On  your  own  head  be  it,"  hissed  the  Fool-Killer, 
arid  my  scalp  prickled  when  I  perceived  that  neither 
Kerner's  eyes  nor  his  ears  took  the  slightest  cog 
nizance  of  Jesse  Holmes.  And  then  I  knew  that  for 
some  reason  the  veil  had  been  lifted  for  me  alone,  and 
that  I  had  been  elected  to  save  my  friend  from  de 
struction  at  the  Fool-Killer's  hands.  Something  of 
the  fear  and  wonder  of  it  must  have  showed  itself  in 
my  face. 

"Excuse  me,"  said  Kerner,  with  his  wan,  amiable 
smile ;  "was  I  talking  to  myself?  I  think  it  is  getting 
to  be  a  habit  with  me." 

The  Fool-Killer  turned  and  walked  out  of  Far- 
roni's. 

"Wait  here  for  me,"  said  I,  rising ;  "I  must  speak 
to  that  man.  Had  you  no  answer  for  him?  Because 
you  are  a  fool  must  you  die  like  a  mouse  under  his 


The  Fool-killer  165 

foot?  Could  you  not  utter  one  squeak  in  your  own 
defence?" 

"You  are  drunk,"  said  Kerner,  heartlessly.  "No 
one  addressed  me." 

"The  destroyer  of  your  mind,"  said  I,  "stood 
above  you  just  now  and  marked  you  for  his  victim. 
You  are  not  blind  or  deaf." 

"I  recognized  no  such  person,"  said  Kerner.  "I 
have  seen  no  one  but  you  at  this  table.  Sit  down. 
Hereafter  you  shall  have  no  more  absinthe  drips." 

"Wait  here,"  said  I,  furious;  "if  you  don't  care 
for  your  own  life,  I  will  save  it  for  you." 

I  hurried  out  and  overtook  the  man  in  gray  half 
way  down  the  block.  He  looked  as  I  had  seen  him  in 
my  fancy  a  thousand  times  —  truculent,  gray  and 
awful.  He  walked  with  the  white  oak  staff,  and  but 
for  the  street-sprinkler  the  dust  would  have  been  fly 
ing  under  his  tread. 

I  caught  him  by  the  sleeve  and  steered  him  to  a 
dark  angle  of  a  building.  I  knew  he  was  a  myth,  and 
I  did  not  want  a  cop  to  see  me  conversing  with  va 
cancy,  for  I  might  land  in  Bellevue  minus  my  silver 
matchbox  and  diamond  ring. 

"Jesse  Holmes,"  said  I,  facing  him  with  apparent 
bravery,  "I  know  you.  I  have  heard  of  you  all  my 
life.  I  know  now  what  a  scourge  you  have  been  to 
your  country.  Instead  of  killing  fools  you  have  been 
murdering  the  youth  and  genius  that  are  necessary  to 


166  The  Voice  of  the  City 

make  a  people  live  and  grow  great.  You  are  a  fool 
yourself,  Holmes ;  you  began  killing  off*  the  brightest 
and  best  of  your  countrymen  three  generations  ago, 
when  the  old  and  obsolete  standards  of  society  and 
honor  and  orthodoxy  were  narrow  and  bigoted.  You 
proved  that  when  you  put  your  murderous  mark  upon 
my  friend  Kerner —  the  wisest  chap  I  ever  knew  in. 
my  life." 

The  Fool-Killer  looked  at  me  grimly  and  closely. 

"You've  a  queer  jag,"  said  he,  curiously.  "Oh, 
yes ;  I  see  who  you  are  now.  You  were  sitting  with 
him  at  the  table.  Well,  if  I'm  not  mistaken,  I  heard 
you  call  him  a  fool,  too." 

"I  did,"  said  I.  "I  delight  in  doing  so.  It  is 
from  envy.  By  all  the  standards  that  you  know  he  is 
the  most  egregious  and  grandiloquent  and  gorgeous 
fool  in  all  the  world.  That's  why  }rou  want  to  kill 
him." 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  who  or  what  you 
think  I  am?"  asked  the  old  man. 

I  laughed  boisterously  and  then  stopped  suddenly, 
for  I  remembered  that  it  would  not  do  to  be  seen  so 
hilarious  in  the  company  of  nothing  but  a  brick 
wall. 

"You  are  Jesse  Holmes,  the  Fool-Killer,"  I  said, 
solemnly,  "and  you  are  going  to  kill  my  friend  Ker 
ner.  I  don't  know  who  rang  you  up,  but  if  you  do 
kill  him  I'll  see  that  you  get  pinched  for  it.  That 


The  Fool-killer  1C7 

is,"  I  a«lded,  despairingly,  "if  I  can  get  a  cop  to  see 
you.  Tltey  have  a  poor  eye  for  mortals,  and  I  think 
it  would  take  the  whole  force  to  round  up  a  myth  mur 
derer." 

"Well,"  said  the  Fool-Killer,  briskly,  "I  must  be 
going.  You  had  better  go  home  and  sleep  it  off. 
Good-night." 

At  this  I  was  moved  by  a  sudden  fear  for  Kerner  to 
a  softer  and  more  pleading  mood.  I  leaned  against 
the  gray  man's  sleeve  and  besought  him : 

"Good  Mr.  Fool-Killer,  please  don't  kill  little  Ker 
ner.  Why  can't  you  go  back  South  and  kill  Con 
gressmen  and  clay-eaters  and  let  us  alone?  Why 
don't  you  go  up  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  kill  millionaires 
that  keep  their  money  locked  up  and  won't  let  young 
fools  marry  because  one  of  'cm  lives  on  the  wrong 
street?  Come  and  have  a  drink,  Jesse.  Will  you 
never  get  on  to  your  job?" 

"Do  you  know  this  girl  that  your  friend  has  made 
himself  a  fool  about?"  asked  the  Fool-Killer. 

"I  have  the  honor,"  said  I,  "and  that's  why  I 
called  Kerner  a  fool.  He  is  a  fool  because  he  has 
waited  so  long  before  marrying  her.  He  is  a  fool 
because  he  has  been  waiting  in  the  hopes  of  getting 
the  consent  of  some  absurd  two-million-dollar-fool 
parent  or  something  of  the  sort." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  Fool-Killer —"maybe  I  — I 
might  have  looked  at  it  differently.  Would  you  mind 


168  The  Voice  of  the  City 

going  back  to  the  restaurant  and  bringing  your 
friend  Kerner  here?" 

"Oh,  what's  the  use,  Jesse,"  I  yawned.  "He  can't 
see  you.  He  didn't  know  you  were  talking  to  him 
at  the  table.  You  are  a  fictitious  character,  you 
know." 

"Maybe  he  can  this  time.  Will  you  go  fetch 
him?" 

"All  right,"  said  I,  "but  I've  a  suspicion  that 
you're  not  strictly  sober,  Jesse.  You  seem  to  be  wa 
vering  and  losing  your  outlines.  Don't  vanish  before 
I  get  back." 

I  went  back  to  Kerner  and  said : 

"There's  a  man  with  an  invisible  homicidal  mania 
waiting  to  see  you  outside.  I  believe  he  wants  to 
murder  you.  Come  along.  You  won't  see  him,  so 
there's  nothing  to  be  frightened  about." 

Kerner  looked  anxious. 

"Why,"  said  he,  "I  had  no  idea  one  absinthe 
would  do  that.  You'd  better  stick  to  Wiirzburger. 
I'll  walk  home  with  you." 

I  led  him  to  Jesse  Holmes's. 

"Rudolf,"  said  the  Fool-Killer,  "I'll  give  in. 
Bring  her  up  to  the  house.  Give  me  your  hand, 
boy." 

"Good  for  you,  dad,"  said  Kerner,  shaking  hands 
with  the  old  man.  "You'll  never  regret  it  after  you 
know  her." 


The  Fool-killer  169 

"So,  you  did  see  him  when  he  was  talking  to  you 
at  the  table?"  I  asked  Kerner. 

"We  hadn't  spoken  to  each  other  in  a  year,"  said 
Kerner.  "It's  all  right  now." 

I  walked  away. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  called  Kerner. 

"I  am  going  to  look  for  Jesse  Holmes,"  I  an 
swered,  with  dignity  and  reserve. 


TRANSIENTS  IN  ARCADIA 

TlIERE  is  a  hotel  on  Broadway  that  has  escaped 
discovery  by  the  summer-resort  promoters.  It  is 
vlcep  and  wide  and  cool.  Its  rooms  are  finished  in 
dark  oak  of  a  low  temperature.  Home-made  breezes 
and  deep-green  shrubbery  give  it  the  delights  without 
the  inconveniences  of  the  Adirondacks.  One  can 
mount  its  broad  staircases  or  glide  dreamily  upward 
in  its  aerial  elevators,  attended  by  guides  in  brass 
buttons,  with  a  serene  joy  that  Alpine  climbers  have 
never  attained.  There  is  a  chef  in  its  kitchen  who 
will  prepare  for  you  brook  trout  better  than  the 
White  Mountains  ever  served,  sea  food  that  would 
turn  Old  Point  Comfort— "by  Gad,  sah  !"—  green 
with  envy,  and  Maine  venison  that  would  melt  the 
official  heart  of  a  game  warden. 

A  few  have  found  out  this  oasis  in  the  July  desert 
of  Manhattan.  During  that  month  you  will  see  the 
hotel's  reduced  array  of  guests  scattered  luxuriously 
about  in  the  cool  twilight  of  its  lofty  dining-room, 
gazing  at  one  another  across  the  snowy  waste  of  un 
occupied  tables,  silently  congratulatory. 

Superfluous,  watchful,  pneumatically  moving  wait 
ers  hover  near,  supplying  every  want  before  it  is  ex 
pressed.  The  temperature  is  perpetual  April.  The 

170 


Transients  in  Arcadia  171 

ceiling  is  painted  in  water  colors  to  counterfeit  a  sum 
mer  sky  across  which  delicate  clouds  drift  and  do  not 
vanish  as  those  of  nature  do  to  our  regret. 

The  pleasing,  distant  roar  of  Broadway  is  trans 
formed  in  the  imagination  of  the  happy  guests  to  the 
noise  of  a  waterfall  filling  the  woods  with  its  restful 
sound.  At  every  strange  footstep  the  guests  turn  an 
anxious  ear,  fearful  lest  their  retreat  be  discovered 
and  invaded  by  the  restless  pleasure-seekers  who  are 
forever  hounding  nature  to  her  deepest  lairs. 

Thus  in  the  depopulated  caravansary  the  little 
band  of  connoisseurs  jealously  hide  themselves  during 
the  heated  season,  enjoying  to  the  uttermost  the  de 
lights  of  mountain  and  seashore  that  art  and  skill 
have  gathered  and  served  to  them. 

In  this  July  came  to  the  hotel  one  whose  card  that 
she  sent  to  the  clerk  for  her  name  to  be  registered 
read  "Mme.  Heloise  D'Arcy  Beaumont." 

Madame  Beaumont  was  a  guest  such  as  the  Hotel 
Lotus  loved.  She  possessed  the  fine  air  of  the  elite, 
tempered  and  sweetened  by  a  cordial  graciousness 
that  made  the  hotel  employes  her  slaves.  Bell-boys 
fought  for  the  honor  of  answering  her  ring;  tht 
clerks,  but  for  the  question  of  ownership,  would  have 
deeded  to  her  the  hotel  and  its  contents ;  the  other 
guests  regarded  her  as  the  final  touch  of  feminine 
exclusiveness  and  beauty  that  rendered  the  entourage 
perfect. 


172  The  Voice  of  the  City 

This  super-excellent  guest  rarely  left  the  hotel. 
Her  habits  were  consonant  with  the  customs  of  the 
discriminating  patrons  of  the  Hotel  Lotus.  To  en 
joy  that  delectable  hostelry  one  must  forego  the  city 
as  though  it  were  leagues  away.  By  night  a  brief 
excursion  to  the  nearby  roofs  is  in  order ;  but  during 
the  torrid  day  one  remains  in  the  umbrageous  fast 
nesses  of  the  Lotus  as  a  trout  hangs  poised  in  the  pel 
lucid  sanctuaries  of  his  favorite  pool.  . 

Though  alone  in  the  Hotel  Lotus,  Madame  Beau 
mont  preserved  the  state  of  a  queen  whose  loneliness 
was  of  position  only.  She  breakfasted  at  ten,  a  cool, 
sweet,  leisurely,  delicate  being  who  glowed  softly  in 
the  dimness  like  a  jasmine  flower  in  the  dusk. 

But  at  dinner  was  Madame's  glory  at  its  height. 
She  wore  a  gown  as  beautiful  and  immaterial  as  the 
mist  from  an  unseen  cataract  in  a  mountain  gorge. 
The  nomenclature  of  this  gown  is  beyond  the  guess 
of  the  scribe.  Always  pale-red  roses  reposed  against 
its  lace-garnished  front.  It  was  a  gown  that  the 
head-waiter  viewed  with  respect  and  met  at  the  door. 
You  thought  of  Paris  when  you  saw  it,  and  maybe  of 
mysterious  countesses,  and  certainly  of  Versailles  and 
rapiers  and  Mrs.  Fiske  and  rouge-et-noir.  There 
was  an  untraceable  rumor  in  the  Hotel  Lotus  that 
Madame  was  a  cosmopolite,  and  that  she  was  pulling 
with  her  slender  white  hands  certain  strings  between 
the  nations  in  the  favor  of  Russia.  Being  a  citi- 


Transients  in  Arcadia  173 

zeness  of  the  world's  smoothest  roads  it  was  small 
wonder  that  she  was  quick  to  recognize  in  the  refined 
purlieus  of  the  Hotel  Lotus  the  most  desirable  spot  in 
America  for  a  restful  sojourn  during  the  heat  of  mid 
summer. 

On  the  third  day  of  Madame  Beaumont's  residence 
in  the  hotel  a  young  man  entered  and  registered  him 
self  as  a  guest.  His  clothing  —  to  speak  of  his 
points  in  approved  order  —  was  quietly  in  the  mode; 
his  features  good  and  regular ;  his  expression  that  of 
a  poised  and  sophisticated  man  of  the  world.  He  in 
formed  the  clerk  that  he  would  remain  three  or  four 
days,  inquired  concerning  the  sailing  of  European 
steamships,  and  sank  into  the  blissful  inanition  of  the 
nonpareil  hotel  with  the  contented  air  of  a  traveller  in 
his  favorite  inn. 

The  young  man  —  not  to  question  the  veracity  of 
the  register  —  was  Harold  Farrington.  He  drifted 
into  the  exclusive  and  calm  current  of  life  in  the  Lotus 
so  tactfully  and  silently  that  not  a  ripple  alarmed  his 
fellow-seekers  after  rest.  He  ate  in  the  Lotus  and 
of  its  patronym,  and  was  lulled  into  blissful  peace 
with  the  other  fortunate  mariners.  In  one  day  he 
acquired  his  table  and  his  waiter  and  the  fear  lest  the 
panting  chasers  after  repose  that  kept  Broadway 
warm  should  pounce  upon  and  destroy  this  contiguous 
but  covert  haven. 

After  dinner  on  the  next  day  after  the  arrival  of 


174  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Harold  Farrington  Madame  Beaumont  dropped  her 
handkerchief  in  passing  out.  Mr.  Farrington  recov 
ered  and  returned  it  without  the  effusiveness  of  a 
seeker  after  acquaintance. 

Perhaps  there  was  a  mystic  freemasonry  between 
the  discriminating  guests  of  the  Lotus.  Perhaps 
they  were  drawn  one  to  another  by  the  fact  of  their 
common  good  fortune  in  discovering  the  acme  of  sum 
mer  resorts  in  a  Broadway  hotel.  Words  delicate  in 
courtesy  and  tentative  in  departure  from  formality 
passed  between  the  two.  And,  as  if  in  the  expedient 
atmosphere  of  a  real  summer  resort,  an  acquaintance 
grew,  flowered  and  fructified  on  the  spot  as  does  the 
mystic  plant  of  the  conjuror.  For  a  few  moments 
they  stood  on  a  balcony  upon  which  the  corridor 
ended,  and  tossed  the  feathery  ball  of  conversation. 

"One  tires  of  the  old  resorts,"  said  Madame  Beau 
mont,  with  a  faint  but  sweet  smile.  "What  is  the  use 
to  fly  to  the  mountains  or  the  seashore  to  escape  noise 
and  dust  when  the  very  people  that  make  both  follow 
us  there?" 

"Even  on  the  ocean,"  remarked  Farrington,  sadly, 
"the  Philistines  be  upon  you.  The  most  exclusive 
steamers  are  getting  to  be  scarcely  more  than  ferry 
boats.  Heaven  help  us  when  the  summer  resorter  dis 
covers  that  the  Lotus  is  further  away  from  Broadway 
than  Thousand  Islands  or  Mackinac." 

"I  hope  our  secret  will  be  safe  for  a  week,  any- 


Transients  in  Arcadia  175 

how,"  said  Madame,  with  a  sigh  and  a  smile.  "I  do 
not  know  where  I  would  go  if  they  should  descend 
upon  the  dear  Lotus.  I  know  of  but  one  place  so  de 
lightful  in  summer,  and  that  is  the  castle  of  Count 
Polinski,  in  the  Ural  Mountains." 

"I  hear  that  Baden-Baden  and  Cannes  are  almost 
deserted  this  season,"  said  P'arrington.  '"Year  by 
year  the  old  resorts  fall  in  disrepute.  Perhaps  many 
others,  like  ourselves,  are  seeking  out  the  quiet  nooks 
that  are  overlooked  by  the  majority." 

"I  promise  myself  three  days  more  of  this  delicious 
rest,"  said  Madame  Beaumont.  "On  Monday  the 
Cedric  sails." 

Harold  Farrington's  eyes  proclaimed  his  regret. 
"I  too  must  leave  on  Monday,"  he  said,  "but  I  do 
not  go  abroad." 

Madame  Beaumont  shrugged  one  round  shoulder 
in  a  foreign  gesture. 

"One  cannot  hide  here  forever,  charming  though  it 
may  be.  The  chateau  has  been  in  preparation  for  me 
longer  than  a  month.  Those  house  parties  that  one 
must  give  —  what  a  nuisance !  But  I  shall  never  for 
get  my  week  in  the  Hotel  Lotus." 

"Nor  shall  I,"  said  Farrington  in  a  low  voice, 
"and  I  shall  never  forgive  the  Cedric." 

On  Sunday  evening,  three  days  afterward,  the  two 
sat  at  a  little  table  on  the  same  balcony.  A  discreet 
waiter  brought  ices  and  small  glasses  of  claret  cup. 


176  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Madame  Beaumont  wore  the  same  beautiful  even 
ing  gown  that  she  had  worn  each  day  at  dinner.  She 
seemed  thoughtful.  Near  her  hand  on  the  table  lay  a 
small  chatelaine  purse.  After  she  had  eaten  her  ice 
she  opened  the  purse  a?:d  took  out  a  one-dollar  bill. 

"Mr.  Farrington,"  she  said,  with  the  smile  that 
had  won  the  Hotel  Lotus,  "I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  I'm  going  to  leave  before  breakfast  in  the 
morning,  because  I've  got  to  go  back  to  my  work. 
I'm  behind  the  hosiery  counter  at  Casey's  Mammoth 
Store,  and  my  vacation's  up  at  eight  o'clock  to 
morrow.  That  paper  dollar  is  the  last  cent  I'll  see 
till  I  draw  my  eight  dollars  salary  next  Saturday 
night.  You're  a  real  gentleman,  and  you've  been 
good  to  me,  and  I  wanted  to  tell  you  before  I  went. 

"I've  been  saving  up  out  of  my  wages  for  a  year 
just  for  this  vacation.  I  wanted  to  spend  one  week 
like  a  lady  if  I  never  do  another  one.  I  wanted  to 
get  up  when  I  please  instead  of  having  to  crawl  out 
at  seven  every  morning;  and  I  wanted  to  live  on  the 
best  and  be  waited  on  and  ring  bells  for  things  just 
like  rich  folks  do.  Now  I've  done  it,  and  I've  had  the 
happiest  time  I  ever  expect  to  have  in  my  life.  I'm 
going  back  to  my  work  and  my  little  hall  bedroom 
satisfied  for  another  year.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
about  it,  Mr.  Farrington,  because  I  —  I  thought  you 
kind  of  liked  me,  and  I  —  I  liked  you.  But,  oh,  I 
couldn't  help  deceiving  you  up  till  now,  for  it  was  all 


Transients  in  Arcadia  177 

just  like  a  fairy  tale  to  me.  So  I  talked  about  Eu 
rope  and  the  things  I've  read  about  in  other  countries, 
and  made  you  think  I  was  a  great  lady. 

"This  dress  I've  got  on  —  it's  the  only  one  I  have 
that's  fit  to  wear  —  I  bought  from  O'Dowd  &  Levin- 
sky  on  the  instalment  plan. 

"Seventy-five  dollars  is  the  price,  and  it  was  made 
to  measure.  I  paid  $10  down,  and  they're  to  collect 
$1  a  week  till  it's  paid  for.  That'll  be  about  all  I 
have  to  say,  Mr.  Farrington,  except  that  my  name  is 
Mamie  Siviter  instead  of  Madame  Beaumont,  and  I 
thank  you  for  your  attentions.  This  dollar  will  pay 
the  instalment  due  on  the  dress  to-morrow.  I  guess 
I'll  go  up  to  my  room  now." 

Harold  Farrington  listened  to  the  recital  of  the 
Lotus's  loveliest  guest  with  an  impassive  countenance. 
When  she  had  concluded  he  drew  a  small  book  like  a 
checkbook  from  his  coat  pocket.  He  wrote  upon  a 
blank  form  in  this  with  a  stub  of  pencil,  tore  out  the 
leaf,  tossed  it  over  to  his  companion  and  took  up  the 
paper  dollar. 

"I've  got  to  go  to  work,  too,  in  the  morning,"  he 
said,  "and  I  might  as  well  begin  now.  There's  a 
receipt  for  the  dollar  instalment.  I've  been  a  col 
lector  for  O'Dowd  &  Levinsky  for  three  years. 
Funny,  ain't  it,  that  you  and  me  both  had  the  same 
idea  about  spending  our  vacation?  I've  always 
wanted  to  put  up  at  a  swell  hotel,  and  I  saved  up  out 


178  The  Voice  of  the  City 

of  my  twenty  per,  and  did  it.     Say ,  Mame,  how  about 
a   trip   to   Coney    Saturday   night    on   the    boat  — 
what?" 

The  face  of  the  pseudo  Madame  Heloise  D'Arcy 
Beaumont  beamed. 

"Oh,  you  bet  I'll  go,  Mr.  Farrington.  The  store 
closes  at  twelve  on  Saturdays.  I  guess  Coney'll  be 
all  right  even  if  we  did  spend  a  week  with  the  swells." 

Below  the  balcony  the  sweltering  city  growled  and 
buzzed  in  the  July  night.  Inside  the  Hotel  Lotus 
the  tempered,  cool  shadows  reigned,  and  the  solicitous 
waiter  single-footed  near  the  low  windows,  ready  at 
a  nod  to  serve  Madame  and  her  escort. 

At  the  door  of  the  elevator  Farrington  took  his 
leave,  and  Madame  Beaumont  made  her  last  ascent. 
But  before  they  reached  the  noiseless  cage  he  said: 
"Just  forget  that  'Harold  Farrington,'  will  you? 
—  McManus  is  the  name  —  James  McManus.  Some 
call  me  Jimmy." 

"Good-night,  Jimmy,"  said  Madame. 


THE  RATHSKELLER  AND  THE  ROSE 

MlSS  POSIE  CARRINGTON  had  earned  her  suc 
cess.  She  began  life  handicapped  by  the  family  name 
of  "Boggs,"  in  the  small  town  known  as  Cranberry 
Corners.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  she  had  acquired 
the  name  of  "Carrington"  and  a  position  in  the 
chorus  of  a  metropolitan  burlesque  company. 
Thence  upward  she  had  ascended  by  the  legitimate 
and  delectable  steps  of  "broiler,"  member  of  the  fa 
mous  "Dickey-bird"  octette,  in  the  successful  musical 
comedy,  "Fudge  and  Fellows,"  leader  of  the  potato- 
bug  dance  in  "Fol-de-Rol,"  and  at  length  to  the  part 
of  the  maid  "  'Toinette"  in  "The  King's  Bath-Robe," 
which  captured  the  critics  and  gave  her  her  chance. 
And  when  we  come  to  consider  Miss  Carrington  she 
is  in  the  heydey  of  flattery,  fame  and  fizz ;  and  that 
astute  manager  Herr  Timothy  Goldstein,  has  her 
signature  to  iron-clad  papers  that  she  will  star  the 
corning  season  in  Dyde  Rich's  new  play,  "Paresis  by 
Gaslight." 

Promptly  there  came  to  Herr  Timothy  a  capable 
twentieth-century  young  character  actor  by  the  name 
of  Highsmith,  who  besought  engagement  as  "Sol 

179 


180  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Haytosser,"  the  comic  and  chief  male  character  part 
in  "Paresis  by  Gaslight." 

"My  boy,"  said  Goldstein,  "take  the  part  if  you 
can  get  it.  Miss  Carrington  won't  listen  to  any  of 
my  suggestions.  She  has  turned  down  half  a  dozen 
of  the  best  imitators  of  the  rural  dub  in  the  city. 
She  declares  she  won't  set  a  foot  on  the  stage  un 
less  "Haytosser"  is  the  best  that  can  be  raked  up. 
She  was  raised  in  a  village,  you  know,  and  when  a 
Broadway  orchid  sticks  a  straw  in  his  hair  and  tries 
to  call  himself  a  clover  blossom  she's  on,  all  right. 
I  asked  her,  in  a  sarcastic  vein,  if  she  thought  Den- 
man  Thompson  would  make  any  kind  of  a  show  in  the 
part.  'Oh,  no,'  says  she.  'I  don't  want  him  or 
John  Drew  or  Jim  Corbett  or  any  of  these  swell 
actors  that  don't  know  a  turnip  from  a  turnstile.  I 
want  the  real  article.'  So,  my  boy,  if  you  want  to 
play  'Sol  Haytosser'  you  will  have  to  convince  Miss 
Carrington.  Luck  be  with  you." 

Highsmith  took  the  train  the  next  day  for  Cran 
berry  Corners.  He  remained  in  that  forsaken  and 
inanimate  village  three  days.  He  found  the  Boggs 
family  and  corkscrewed  their  history  unto  the  third 
and  fourth  generation.  He  amassed  the  facts  and  the 
local  color  of  Cranberry  Corners.  The  village  had 
not  grown  as  rapidly  as  had  Miss  Carrington.  The 
actor  estimated  that  it  had  suffered  as  few  actual 
changes  since  the  departure  of  its  solitary  follower 


The  Rathskeller  and  the  Rose       181 

of  Thcspis  as  had  a  stage  upon  which  "four  years 
is  supposed  to  have  elapsed."  He  absorbed  Cran 
berry  Corners  and  returned  to  the  city  of  chameleon 
changes. 

It  was  in  the  rathskeller  that  Highsmith  made  the 
hit  of  his  histrionic  career.  There  is  no  need  to 
name  the  place;  there  is  but  one  rathskeller  where 
you  could  hope  to  find  Miss  Posic  Carrington  after  a 
performance  of  "The  King's  Bath-Robe." 

There  was  a  jolly  small  party  at  one  of  the  tables 
that  drew  man}7  eyes.  Miss  Carrington,  petite,  mar 
vellous,  bubbling,  electric,  fame-drunken,  shall  be 
named  first.  Ilerr  Goldstein  follows,  sonorous,  curty- 
haired,  heavy,  a  trifle  anxious,  as  some  bear  that  had 
caught,  somehow,  a  butterfly  in  his  claws.  Next, 
a  man  condemned  to  a  newspaper,  sad,  courted, 
armed,  analyzing  for  press  agent's  dross  every  sen 
tence  that  was  poured  over  him,  eating  his  a  la  New- 
burg  in  the  silence  of  greatness.  To  conclude,  a 
youth  with  parted  hair,  a  name  that  is  ochre  to  red 
journals  and  gold  on  the  back  of  a  supper  check. 
These  sat  at  a  table  while  the  musicians  played,  while 
waiters  moved  in  the  mazy  performance  of  their  duties 
with  their  backs  toward  all  who  desired  their  service, 
and  all  was  bizarre  and  merry  because  it  was  nine  feet 
below  the  level  of  the  sidewalk. 

At  11.45  a  being  entered  the  rathskeller.  The 
first  violin  perceptibly  flatted  a  C  that  should  have 


182  The  Voice  of  the  City 

been  natural ;  the  clarionet  blew  a  bubble  instead  of  a 
grace  note;  Miss  Carrington  giggled  and  the  youth 
with  parted  hair  swallowed  an  olive  seed. 

Exquisitely  and  irreproachably  rural  was  the  new 
entry.  A  lank,  disconcerted,  hesitating  young  man 
it  was,  flaxen-haired,  gaping  of  mouth,  awkward, 
stricken  to  misery  by  the  lights  and  company.  His 
clothing  was  butternut,  with. bright  blue  tie,  showing 
four  inches  of  bony  wrist  and  white-socked  ankle. 
He  upset  a  chair,  sat  in  another  one,  curled  a  foot 
around  a  table  leg  and  cringed  at  the  approach  of 
a  waiter. 

"You  may  fetch  me  a  glass  of  lager  beer,"  he  said, 
in  response  to  the  discreet  questioning  of  the 
servitor. 

The  eyes  of  the  rathskeller  were  upon  him.  He 
was  as  fresh  as  a  collard  and  as  ingenuous  as  a  hay 
rake.  He  let  his  eye  rove  about  the  place  as  one  who 
regards,  big-eyed,  hogs  in  the  potato  patch.  His 
gaze  rested  at  length  upon  Miss  Carrington.  He 
rose  and  went  to  her  table  with  a  lateral,  shining  smile 
and  a  blush  of  pleased  trepidation. 

"How're  ye,  Miss  Posie?"  he  said  in  accents  not 
to  be  doubted.  Don't  ye  remember  me  — Bill  Sum 
mers —  the  Summerses  that  lived  back  of  the  black 
smith  shop?  I  reckon  I've  growcd  up  some  since  ye 
left  Cranberry  Corners. 

"'Liza  Perry  'lowed  I  might  see  ye  in  the  city 


The  Rathskeller  and  the  Rose       183 

while  I  was  here.  You  know  'Liza  married  Benny 
Stanfield,  and  she  says " 

"Ah,  say !"  interrupted  Miss  Carrington,  brightly, 
"Lize  Perry  is  never  married  —  what!  Oh,  the 
freckles  of  her !" 

"Married  in  June,"  grinned  the  gossip,  "and  livin' 
in  the  old  Tatum  Place.  Ham  Ililey  perfessed  reli 
gion  ;  old  Mrs.  Blithers  sold  her  place  to  Cap'n 
Spooner;  the  youngest  Waters  girl  run  away  with  a 
music  teacher ;  the  court-house  burned  up  last  March ; 
your  uncle  Wiley  was  elected  constable ;  Matilda  Hos- 
kins  died  from  runnin'  a  needle  in  her  hand,  and  Tom 
Beedle  is  courtin'  Sallie  Lathrop  —  they  say  he  don't 
miss  a  night  but  what  he's  settin'  on  their  porch." 

"The  wall-eyed  thing!"  exclaimed  Miss  Carring 
ton,  with  asperity.  "Why,  Tom  Beedle  once  —  say, 
you  folks,  excuse  me  a  while  —  this  is  an  old  friend 
of  mine  —  Mr. —  what  was  it?  Yes,  Mr.  Summers 

~-  Mr.  Goldstein,  Mr.  Ricketts,  Mr. Oh,  what's 

yours?  * Johnny'  '11  do  —  come  on  over  here  and 
tell  me  some  more." 

She  swept  him  to  an  isolated  table  in  a  corner. 
Herr  Goldstein  shrugged  his  fat  shoulders  and  beck 
oned  to  the  waiter.  *  The  newspaper  man  brightened 
a  little  and  mentioned  absinthe.  The  youth  with 
parted  hair  was  plunged  into  melancholy.  The 
guests  of  the  rathskeller  laughed,  clinked  glasses  and 
enjoyed  the  comedy  that  Posie  Carrington  was  treat- 


184  TT*e  Voice  of  the  City 

ing  them  to  aii^r  her  regular  performance*  A  few 
cynical  ones  whispered  "press  agent"  and  smiled 
wisely. 

Posie  Carrington  laid  her  dimpled  and  desirable 
chin  upon  her  hands,  and  forgot  her  audience  —  a 
faculty  that  had  won  her  laurels  for  her. 

"I  don't  seem  to  recollect  any  Bill  Summers,"  she 
said,  thoughtfully  gazing  straight  into  the  innocent 
blue  eyes  of  the  rustic  young  man.  "But  I  know  the 
Summerses,  all  right.  I  guess  there  ain't  many 
changes  in  the  old  town.  You  see  any  of  my  folks 
lately?" 

And  then  Kighsmith  played  his  trump.  The  part 
of  "Sol  Kaytosser"  called  for  pathos  as  well  as 
comedy.  Miss  Carrington  should  see  that  he  could 
do  that  as  well. 

"Hiss  Posie,"  said  "Bill  Summers,"  "I  was  up  to 
your  folkeses  house  jist  two  or  three  days  ago.  No, 
there  ain't  many  changes  to  speak  of.  The  lilac  bush 
by  the  kitchen  window  is  over  a  foot  higher,  and  the 
elm  in  the  front  yard  died  and  had  to  be  cut  down. 
And  ret  it  don't  seem  the  same  place  that  it  used 
to  be." 

"How's  ma?"  asked  Miss  Carrington. 

"She  was  settin'  by  the  front  door,  crocheting  a 
lamp-mat  when  I  saw  her  last,"  said  "Bill."  "She's 
older'n  she  was,  Miss  Posie.  But  everything  in  the 
house  looked  jest  the  same.  Y«ur  ma  asked  me  to  set 


The  Rathskeller  and  the  Rose       185 

down.  'Don't  touch  that  willow  rocker,  William,' 
says  she.  'It  ain't  been  moved  since  Posie  left ;  and 
that's  the  apron  she  was  hemmin',  layin'  over  the  arm 
of  it,  jist  as  she  flung  it.  I'm  in  hopes,'  she  goes  on, 
'that  Posie'll  finish  runnin'  out  that  hem  some  day.' " 

Miss  Carrington  beckoned  peremptorily  to  a 
waiter. 

"A  pint  of  extra  dry,"  she  ordered,  briefly ;  "and 
give  the  check  to  Goldstein." 

"The  sun  was  shinin'  in  the  door,"  went  on  the 
chronicler  from  Cranberry,  "and  your  ma  was  settin' 
night  in  it.  I  asked  her  if  she  hadn't  better  move 
back  a  little.  'William,'  says  she,  'when  I  get  sot 
down  and  lookin'  down  the  road,  I  can't  bear  to  move. 
Never  a  day,'  says  she,  'but  what  I  set  here  every 
minute  that  I  can  spare  and  watch  over  them  palin's 
for  Posie.  She  went  away  down  that  road  in  the 
night,  for  we  seen  her  little  shoe  tracks  in  the  dust, 
and  somethin'  tells  me  she'll  come  back  that  way  ag'in 
when  she's  weary  of  the  world  and  begins  to  think 
about  her  old  mother.' 

"When  I  was  comin'  away,"  concluded  "Bill," 
"I  pulled  this  off'n  the  bush  by  the  front  steps.  I 
thought  maybe  I  might  see  you  in  the  city,  and  I 
knowed  you'd  like  somethin'  from  the  old  home." 

He  took  from  his  coat  pocket  a  rose  —  a  drooping, 
yellow,  velvet,  odorous  rose,  that  hung  its  head  in 
the  foul  atmosphere  of  that  tainted  rathskeller  like 


186  The  Voice  of  the  City 

a  virgin  bowing  before  the  hot  breath  of  the  lions  in 
a  Roman  arena. 

Miss  Carrington's  penetrating  but  musical  laugh 
rose  above  the  orchestra's  rendering  of  "Bluebells." 

"Oh,  say !"  she  cried,  with  glee,  "ain't  those  poky 
places  the  limit?  I  just  know  that  two  hours  at 
Cranberry  Corners  would  give  me  the  horrors  now. 
Well,  I'm  awful  glad  to  have  seen  you,  Mr.  Summers. 
I  guess  I'll  hustle  around  to  the  hotel  now  and  get 
my  beauty  sleep." 

She  thrust  the  yellow  rose  into  the  bosom  of  her 
wonderful,  dainty,  silken  garments,  stood  up  and 
nodded  imperiously  at  Herr  Goldstein. 

Her  three  companions  and  "Bill  Summers"  at 
tended  her  to  her  cab.  When  her  flounces  and 
streamers  were  all  safely  tucked  inside  she  dazzled 
them  with  au  revoirs  from  her  shining  eyes  and  teeth. 

"Come  around  to  the  hotel  and  see  me,  Bill,  before 
you  leave  the  city,"  she  called  as  the  glittering  cab 
rolled  away. 

Highsmith,  still  in  his  make-up,  went  with  Herr 
Goldstein  to  a  cafe  booth. 

"Bright  idea,  eh?"  asked  the  smiling  actor. 
"Ought  to  land  'Sol  Haytosser'  for  me,  don't  you 
think?  The  little  lady  never  once  tumbled." 

"I  didn't  hear  your  conversation,"  said  Goldstein, 
"but  your  make-up  and  acting  was  O.  K.  Here's  to 
your  success.  You'd  better  call  on  Miss  Carrington 


The  Rathskeller  and  the  Rose       187 

early  to-morrow  and  strike  her  for  the  part.  I  don't 
see  how  she  can  keep  from  being  satisfied  with  your 
exhibition  of  ability." 

At  11. 45  A.  M.  on  the  next  day  Highsmith,  hand 
some,  dressed  in  the  latest  mode,  confident,  with  a 
fuchsia  in  his  button-hole,  sent  up  his  card  to  Miss 
Carrington  in  her  select  apartment  hotel. 

He  was  shown  up  and  received  by  the  actress's 
French  maid. 

"I  am  sorree,"  said  Mile.  Hortense,  "but  I  am  to 
say  this  to  all.  It  is  with  great  regret.  Mees  Car 
rington  have  cancelled  all  engagements  on  the  stage 
and  have  returned  to  live  in  that  —  how  you  call  that 
town?  Cranberry  Cornaire!" 


THE  CLARION  CALL 

ilALF  of  this  story  caii  be  found  in  the  records  of 
the  Police  Department ;  the  other  half  belongs  behind 
the  business  counter  of  a  newspaper  office. 

One  afternoon  two  weeks  after  Millionaire  Nor- 
cross  was  found  in  his  apartment  murdered  by  a  bur 
glar,  the  murderer,  while  strolling  serenely  down 
Broadway,  ran  plump  against  Detective  Barney 
Woods. 

"Is  that  you,  Johnny  Kernan?"  asked  Woods, 
who  had  been  near-sighted  in  public  for  five  years. 

"No  less,"  cried  Kernan,  heartily.  "If  it  isn't 
Barney  Woods,  late  and  early  of  old  Saint  Jo  1 
You'll  have  to  show  me!  What  are  you  doing  East? 
Do  the  green-goods  circulars  get  out  that  far?" 

"I've  been  in  New  York  some  years,"  said  Woods. 
"I'm  on  the  city  detective  force." 

"Well,  well!"  said  Kernan,  breathing  smiling  joy 
and  patting  the  detective's  arm. 

"Come  into  Muller's,"  said  Woods,  "and  let's  hunt 
a  quiet  table.  I'd  like  to  talk  to  you  awhile." 

It  lacked  a  few  minutes  to  the  hour  of  four.  The 
tides  of  trade  were  not  yet  loosed,  and  they  found  a 
quiet  corner  of  the  cafe.  Kernan,  well  dressed, 

188 


The  Clarion  Call  189 

slightly  swaggering,  self-confident,  seated  himself  op 
posite  the  little  detective,  with  his  pale,  sandy  mus 
tache,  squinting  eyes  and  ready-made  cheviot  suit. 

"What  business  are  you  in  now?"  asked  Woods. 
"You  know  you  left  Saint  Jo  a  year  before  I  did." 

"I'm  selling  shares  in  a  copper  mine,"  said  Kcr- 
nan.  "I  may  establish  an  office  here.  Well,  well ! 
and  so  old  Barney  is  a  New  York  detective.  You 
alwa^ys  had  a  turn  that  way.  You  were  on  the  po 
lice  in  Saint  Jo  after  I  left  there,  weren't  you?" 

"Six  months,"  said  Woods.  "And  now  there's  one 
more  question,  Johnnj^.  I've  followed  your  record 
pretty  close  ever  since  you  did  that  hotel  job  in  Sara 
toga,  and  I  never  knew  you  to  .use  your  gun  before. 
Why  did  you  kill  Norcross?" 

Kcrnan  stared  for  a  few  moments  with  concen 
trated  attention  at  the  slice  of  lemon  in  his  high-ball ; 
and  then  he  looked  at  the  detective  with  a  sudden, 
crooked,  brilliant  smile. 

"How  did  you  guess  it,  Barney?"  he  asked,  ad 
miringly.  "I  swear  I  thought  the  job  was  as  clean 
and  as  smooth  as  a  peeled  onion.  Did  I  leave  a 
string  hanging  out  anywhere?" 

Woods  laid  upon  the  table  a  small  gold  pencil  in 
tended  for  a  watch-charm. 

"It's  the  one  I  gave  you  the  last  Christmas  we 
were  in  Saint  Jo.  I've  got  your  shaving  mug  yet. 
I  found  this  under  a  corner  of  the  rug  in  Norcross's 


190  The  Voice  of  the  City 

room.  I  warn  you  to  be  careful  what  you  say.  I've 
got  it  put  on  to  you,  Johnny.  We  were  old  friends 
once,  but  I  must  do  my  duty.  You'll  have  to  go  to 
the  chair  for  Norcross." 

Kernan  laughed. 

"My  luck  stays  with  me,"  said  he.  "Who'd  have 
thought  old  Barney  was  on  my  trail!"  He  slipped 
one  hand  inside  his  coat.  In  an  instant  Woods  had 
a  revolver  against  his  side. 

"Put  it  away,"  said  Kernan,  wrinkling  his  nose. 
"I'm  only  investigating.  Aha  !  It  takes  nine  tailors 
to  make  a  man,  but  one  can  do  a  man  up.  There's 
a  hole  in  that  vest  pocket.  I  took  that  pencil  off  my 
chain  and  slipped  it  in  there  in  case  of  a  scrap.  Put 
up  your  gun,  Barney,  and  I'll  tell  you  why  I  had 
to  shoot  Norcross.  The  old  fool  started  down  the 
hall  after  me,  popping  at  the  buttons  on  the  back  of 
my  coat  with  a  peevish  little  .22  and  I  had  to  stop 
him.  The  old  lady  was  a  darling.  She  just  lay  in 
bed  and  saw  her  $12,000  diamond  necklace  go  with 
out  a  chirp,  while  she  begged  like  a  panhandler  to 
have  back  a  little  thin  gold  ring  with  a  garnet  worth 
about  $3.  I  guess  she  married  old  Norcross  for  his 
money,  all  right.  Don't  they  hang  on  to  the  little 
trinkets  from  the  Man  Who  Lost  Out,  though? 
There  were  six  rings,  two  brooches  and  a  chatelaine 
watch.  Fifteen  thousand  would  cover  the  lot." 

"I  warned  you  not  to  talk,"  said  W^oods. 


The  Clarion  Call  191 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,"  said  Kernan.  "The  stuff 
is  in  iny  suit  case  at  the  hotel.  And  now  I'll  tell  you 
why  I'm  talking.  Because  it's  safe.  I'm  talking  to 
a  man  I  know.  You  owe  me  a  thousand  dollars,  Bar 
ney  Woods,  and  even  if  you  wanted  to  arrest  me  your 
hand  wouldn't  make  the  move." 

"I  haven't  forgotten,"  said  Woods.  "You  counted 
out  twenty  fifties  without  a  word.  I'll  pay  it  back 
some  day.  That  thousand  saved  me  and  —  well,  they 
were  piling  my  furniture  out  on  the  sidewalk  when  I 
got  back  to  the  house." 

"And  so,"  continued  Kernan,  "you  being  Barney 
Woods,  born  as  true  as  steel,  and  bound  to  play  a 
white  man's  game,  can't  lift  a  finger  to  arrest  the 
man  you're  indebted  to.  Oh,  I  have  to  study  men 
as  well  as  Yale  locks  and  window  fastenings  in  my 
business.  Now,  keep  quiet  while  I  ring  for  the 
waiter.  I've  had  a  thirst  for  a  year  or  two  that  wor 
ries  me  a  little.  If  I'm  ever  caught  the  lucky  sleuth 
will  have  to  divide  honors  with  old  boy  Booze.  But  I 
never  drink  during  business  hours.  After  a  job  I 
can  crook  elbows  with  my  old  friend  Barney  with  a 
clear  conscience.  What  are  you  taking?" 

The  waiter  came  with  the  little  decanters  and  the 
siphon  and  left  them  alone  again. 

"You've  called  the  turn,"  said  Woods,  as  he  rolled 
the  little  gold  pencil  about  with  a  thoughtful  fore 
finger.  "I've  got  to  pass  you  up.  I  can't  lay  a 


192  The  Voice  of  the  City 

hand  on  you.  If  I'd  a-paid  that  money  back  —  but 
I  didn't,  and  that  settles  it.  It's  a  bad  break  I'm 
making,  Johnny,  but  I  can't  dodge  it.  You  helped 
me  once,  and  it  calls  for  the  same." 

"I  knew  it,"  said  Kernan,  raising  his  glass,  with 
a  flushed  smile  of  self-appreciation.  "I  can  judge 
men.  Here's  to  Barney,  for — 'he's  a  jolly  good 
fellow.' " 

"I  don't  believe,"  went  on  Woods  quietly,  as  if  he 
were  thinking  aloud,  "that  if  accounts  had  been 
square  between  you  and  me,  all  the  money  in  all  the 
banks  in  New  York  could  have  bought  you  out  of 
my  hands  to-night." 

"I  know  it  couldn't,"  said  Kernan.  "That's  why 
I  knew  I  was  safe  with  you." 

"Most  people,"  continued  the  detective,  "look  side 
ways  at  my  business.  They  don't  class  it  among  the 
fine  arts  and  the  professions.  But  I've  always  taken 
a  kind  of  fool  pride  in  it.  And  here  is  where  I  go 
'busted.'  I  guess  I'm  a  man  first  and  a  detective 
afterward.  I've  got  to  let  you  go,  and  then  I've  got 
to  resign  from  the  force.  I  guess  I  can  drive  an  ex 
press  wagon.  Your  thousand  dollars  is  further  off 
than  ever,  Johnny." 

"Oh,  you're  welcome  to  it,"  said  Kernan,  with  a 
lordly  air.  "I'd  be  willing  to  call  the  debt  off,  but 
I  know  you  wouldn't  have  it.  It  was  a  lucky  day 
for  me  when  you  borrowed  it.  And  now,  let's  drop 


The  Clarion  Call  193 

the  subject.  I'm  off  to  the  West  on  a  morning  train. 
I  know  a  place  out  there  where  I  can  negotiate  the 
Norcross  sparks.  Drink  up,  Barney,  and  forget  your 
troubles.  We'll  have  a  jolly  time  while  the  police 
are  knocking  their  heads  together  over  the  case. 
I've  got  one  of  my  Sahara  thirsts  on  to-night.  But 
I'm  in  the  hands  —  the  unofficial  hands  —  of  my  old 
friend  Barney,  and  I  won't  even  dreain  of  a  cop." 

And  then,  as  Kernan's  ready  finger  kept  the  but 
ton  and  the  waiter  working,  his  weak  point — a  tre 
mendous  vanity  and  arrogant  egotism,  began  to  show 
itself.  He  recounted  story  after  story  of  his  suc 
cessful  plunderings,  ingenious  plots  and  infamous 
transgressions  until  Woods,  with  all  his  familiarity 
with  evil-doers,  felt  growing  within  him  a  cold  ab 
horrence  toward  tRe  utterly  vicious  man  who  had 
once  been  his  benefactor. 

"I'm  disposed  of,  of  course,"  said  Woods,  at 
length.  "But  I  advise  you  to  keep  under  cover  for  a 
spell.  The  newspapers  may  take  up  this  Norcross 
affair.  There  has  been  an  epidemic  of  burglaries  and 
manslaughter  in  town  this  summer." 

The  word  sent  Kernan  into  a  high  glow  of  sullen 
and  vindictive  rage. 

"To  h — 1  with  the  newspapers,"  he  growled. 
"What  do  they  spell  but  brag  and  blow  and  boodle  in 
box-car  letters?  Suppose  they  do  take  up  a  case  — 
what  does  it  amount  to?  The  police  are  easy  enough 


194  The  Voice  of  the  City 

to  fool;  but  what  do  the  newspapers  do?  They  send 
a  lot  of  pin-head  reporters  around  to  the  scene ;  and 
they  make  for  the  nearest  saloon  and  have  beer  while 
they  take  photos  of  the  bartender's  oldest  daughter 
in  evening  dress,  to  print  as  the  fiancee  of  the  young 
man  in  the  tenth  story,  who  thought  he  heard  a  noise 
below  on  the  night  of  the  murder.  That's  about  as 
near  as  the  newspapers  ever  come  to  running  down 
Mr.  Burglar." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  said  Woods,  reflecting. 
"Some  of  the  papers  have  done  good  work  in  that 
line.  There's  the  Morning  Mars,  for  instance.  It 
warmed  up  two  or  three  trails,  and  got  the  man  after 
the  police  had  let  'em  get  cold." 

"I'll  show  you,"  said  Kernan,  rising,  and  expand 
ing  his  chest.  "I'll  show  you  what  I  think  of  news 
papers  in  general,  and  your  Morning  Mars  in  par 
ticular." 

Three  feet  from  their  table  was  the  telephone 
booth.  Kernan  went  inside  and  sat  at  the  instrument, 
leaving  the  door  open.  He  found  a  number  in  the 
book,  took  down  the  receiver  and  made  his  demand 
upon  Central.  Woods  sat  still,  looking  at  the  sneer 
ing,  cold,  vigilant  face  waiting  close  to  the  trans 
mitter,  and  listened  to  the  words  that  came  from  the 
thin,  truculent  lips  curved  into  a  contemptuous  smile. 

"That  the  Morning  Mars?  ...  I  want  to 
speak  to  the  managing  editor  .  .  .  Why,  tell 


The  Clarion  Call  195 

him  it's  some  one  who  waats  to  talk  to  him  about  the 
Norcross  murder. 

"You  the  editor?  .  .  .  All  right.  ...  I 
am  the  man  who  killed  old  Norcross  .  .  .  Wait ! 
Hold  the  wire ;  I'm  not  the  usual  crank  .  .  .  Oh, 
there  isn't  the  slightest  danger.  I've  just  been  dis 
cussing  it  with  a  detective  friend  of  mine.  I  killed 
the  old  man  at  2.30  A.  M.  two  weeks  ago  to 
morrow.  .  .  .  Have  a  drink  with  you?  Now, 
hadn't  you  better  leave  that  kind  of  talk  to  your 
funny  man?  Can't  you  tell  whether  a  man's  guying 
you  or  whether  you're  being  offered  the  biggest  scoop 
your  dull  dishrag  of  a  paper  ever  had?  .  .  . 
Well,  that's  so;  it's  a  bobtail  scoop  —  but  you  can 
hardly  expect  me  to  'phone  in  my  name  and  address. 
.  .  .  Why !  Oh,  because  I  heard  you  make  a 
specialty  of  solving  mysterious  crimes  that  stump  the 
police.  .  .  .  No,  that's  not  all.  I  want  to  tell 
you  that  your  rotten,  lying,  penny  sheet  is  of  no  more 
use  in  tracking  an  intelligent  murderer  or  highway 
man  than  a  blind  poodle  would  be.  ...  What  ? 
.  .  .  Oil,  no,  this  isn't  a  rival  newspaper  office; 
you're  getting  it  straight.  I  did  the  Norcross  job, 
and  I've  got  the  jewels  in  my  suit  case  at — 'the 
name  of  the  hotel  could  not  be  learned' — you  recog 
nize  that  phrase,  don't  you?  I  thought  so.  You've 
used  it  often  enough.  Kind  of  rattles  you,  doesn't 
it,  to  have  the  mysterious  villain  call  up  your  great, 


196  The  Voice  of  the  City 

big,  all-powerful  organ  of  right  and  justice  and  good 
government  and  tell  you  what  a  helpless  old  gas-bag 
you  are?  .  .  .  Cut  that  out ;  you're  not  that  big 
a  fool  —  no,  you  don't  think  I'm  a  fraud.  I  can  tell 
it  by  your  voice.  .  .  .  Now,  listen,  and  I'll  give 
you  a  pointer  that  will  prove  it  to  you.  Of  course 
you've  had  this  murder  case  worked  over  by  your  staff 
of  bright  young  blockheads.  Half  of  the  second 
button  on  old  Mrs.  Norcross's  nightgown  is  broken 
off.  I  saw  it  when  I  took  the  garnet  ring  off  her 
finger.  I  thought  it  was  a  ruby.  .  .  .  Stop 
that !  It  won't  work." 

Kernan  turned  to  Woods  with  a  diabolic  smile. 

"I've  got  him  going.  He  believes  me  now.  He 
didn't  quite  cover  the  transmitter  with  his  hand  when 
he  told  somebody  to  call  up  Central  on  another  'phone 
and  get  our  number.  I'll  give  him  just  one  more  dig, 
and  then  we'll  make  a  'get-away.' 

"Hello !  .  .  .  Yes.  I'm  here  yet.  You 
didn't  think  I'd  run  from  such  a  little  subsidized,  turn 
coat  rag  of  a  newspaper,  did  you?  .  .  .  Have 
me  inside  of  forty-eight  hours?  Say,  will  you  quit 
being  funny?  Now,  you  let  grown  men  alone  and  at 
tend  to  your  business  of  hunting  up  divorce  cases  and 
street-car  accidents  and  printing  the  filth  and 
scandal  that  you  make  your  living  by.  Good-bv,  old 
boy  —  sorry  I  haven't  time  to  call  on  you.  I'd  feel 
perfectly  safe  in  your  sanctum  asinorum.  Tra-la !" 


The  Clarion  Call  197 

"He's  as  mad  as  a  cat  that's  lost  a  mouse,"  said 
Kernan,  hanging  up  the  receiver  and  coming  out. 
"And  now,  Barney,  rny  boy,  we'll  go  to  a  show  and 
enjoy  ourselves  until  a  reasonable  bedtime.  Four 
hours'  sleep  for  me,  and  then  the  west-bound." 

The  two  dined  in  a  Broadway  restaurant.  Kernan 
was  pleased  with  himself.  He  spent  money  like  a 
prince  of  fiction.  And  then  a  weird  and  gorgeous 
musical  comedy  engaged  their  attention.  Afterward 
there  was  a  late  supper  in  a  grillroom,  with 
champagne,  and  Kernan  at  the  height  of  his  com 
placency. 

Half-past  three  in  the  morning  found  them  in  a 
corner  of  an  all-night  cafe,  Kernan  still  boasting  in 
a  vapid  and  rambling  way,  Woods  thinking  moodily 
over  the  end  that  had  come  to  his  usefulness  as  an 
upholder  of  the  law. 

But,  as  he  pondered,  his  eye  brightened  with  a 
speculative  light. 

"I  wonder  if  it's  possible,"  he  said  to  himself,  "I 
won-der  if  it's  pos-si-ble !" 

And  then  outside  the  cafe  the  comparative  stillness 
of  the  early  morning  was  punctured  by  faint,  uncer 
tain  cries  that  seemed  mere  fireflies  of  sound,  some 
growing  louder,  some  fainter,  wraxing  and  waning 
amid  the  rumble  of  milk  wagons  and  infrequent  cars. 
Shrill  cries  they  were  when  near  —  well-known  cries 
that  conveyed  many  meanings  to  the  ears  of  those  of 


198  The  Voice  of  the  City 

the  slumbering  millions  of  the  great  city  who  waked 
to  hear  them.  Cries  that  bore  upon  their  significant, 
small  volume  the  weight  of  a  world's  woe  and  laugh 
ter  and  delight  and  stress.  To  some,  cowering  be 
neath  the  protection  of  a  night's  ephemeral  cover, 
they  brought  news  of  the  hideous,  bright  day;  to 
others,  wrapped  in  happy  sleep,  they  announced  a 
morning  that  would  dawn  blacker  than  sable  night. 
To  many  of  the  rich  they  brought  a  besom  to  sweep 
away  what  had  been  theirs  while  the  stars  shone ;  to 
the  poor  they  brought  —  another  day. 

All  over  the  city  the  cries  were  starting  up,  keen 
and  sonorous,  heralding  the  chances  that  the  slip 
ping  of  one  cogwheel  in  the  machinery  of  time  had 
made;  apportioning  to  the  sleepers  while  they  lay 
at  the  mercy  of  fate,  the  vengeance,  profit,  grief, 
reward  and  doom  that  the  new  figure  in  the  calen 
dar  had  brought  them.  Shrill  and  yet  plaintive 
were  the  cries,  as  if  the  young  voices  grieved  that  so 
much  evil  and  so  little  good  was  in  their  irresponsible 
hands.  Thus  echoed  in  the  streets  of  the  helpless 
city  the  transmission  of  the  latest  decrees  of  the  gods, 
the  cries  of  the  newsboys  —  the  Clarion  Call  of  the 
Press. 

Woods  flipped  a  dime  to  the  waiter,  and  said : 

"Get  me  a  Morning  Mars" 

When  the  paper  came  he  glanced  at  its  first  page, 
and  then  tore  a  leaf  out  of  his  memorandum  book 


The  Clarion  Call  199 

and  began  to  write  on  it  with  the  little  gold  pencil. 
"What's  the  news?"  yawned  Kernan. 
Woods  flipped  over  to  him  the  piece  of  writing: 

'The  New  York  Morning  Mars: 

"Please  pay  to  the  order  of  John  Kernan  the  one  thousand 
dollars  reward  coming  to  me  for  his  arrest  and  conviction. 

"BARXARD  WOODS." 

"I  kind  of  thought  they  would  do  that,"  said 
Woods,  "when  you  were  jollying  'em  so  hard.  Now, 
Johnny,  you'll  come  to  the  police  station  with  me." 


EXTRADITED  FROM  BOHEMIA 

Jr  ROM  near  the  village  of  Harmony,  at  tlio  foot 
of  the  Green  Mountains,  came  Miss  Me  dor  a  Martin 
to  New  York  with  her  color-box  ami  easel. 

Miss  Medora  resembled  the  rose  which  the  autum 
nal  frosts  had  spared  the  longest  of  all  her  sister 
blossoms.  In  Harmony,  when  she  started  alone  to 
the  wicked  city  to  study  art,  they  said  she  was  a  mad, 
reckless,  headstrong  girl.  In  New  York,  when  she 
first  took  her  seat  at  a  West  Side  boarding-house 
table,  the  boarders  asked :  "Who  is  the  nice-look 
ing  old  maid?" 

Medora  took  heart,  a  cheap  hall  bedroom  and  two 
art  lessons  a  week  from  Professor  Angelini,  a  retired 
barber  who  had  studied  his  profession  in  a  Harlem 
dancing  academy.  There  was  no  one  to  set  her  right, 
for  here  in  the  big  city  they  do  it  unto  all  of  us. 
How  many  of  us  are  badly  shaved  daih'  and  taught 
the  two-step  imperfectly  by  ex-pupils  of  Bastien  Le 
Page  and  Gerome?  The  most  pathetic  sight  in  New 
York  —  except  the  manners  of  the  rush-hour  crowds 
—  is  the  dreary  march  of  the  hopeless  arm}'  of  Me 
diocrity.  Here  Art  is  no  benignant  goddess,  but  a 
Circe  who  turns  her  wooers  into  mewing  Toms  and 
Tabbies  who  linger  about  the  doorsteps  of  her  abode, 

200 


Extradited  from  Bohemia  201 

unmindful  of  the  flying  brickbats  and  boot-jacks  of 
tiie  critics.  Some  of  us  creep  back  to  our  native  vil 
lages  to  the  skim-milk  of  "I  told  you  so";  but  most 
of  us  prefer  to  remain  in  the  cold  courtyard  of  our 
mistress's  temple,  snatching  the  scraps  that  fall  from 
her  divine  table  d'hote.  But  some  of  us  grow  weary 
at  last  of  the  fruitless  service.  And  then  there  are 
two  fates  open  to  us.  We  can  get  a  job  driving  a 
grocer's  wagon,  or  we  can  get  swallowed  up  in  the 
Vortex  of  Bohemia.  The  latter  sounds  good ;  but  the 
former  really  pans  out  better.  For,  when  the  grocer 
pays  us  off  we  can  rent  a  dress  suit  and  —  the  cap 
italized  system  of  humor  describes  it  best  —  Get  Bo 
hemia  On  the  Run. 

Miss  Mcclora  chose  the  Vortex  and  thereby  fur 
nishes  us  with  our  little  story. 

Professor  Angelini  praised  her  sketches  excessively. 
One  when  she  had  made  a  neat  study  of  a  horse- 
chestnut  tree  in  the  park  he  declared  she  would  be 
come  a  second  Rosa  Bonheur.  Again  —  a  great  art 
ist  has  his  moods— -he  would  say  cruel  and  cutting 
things.  For  example,  Medora  had  spent  an  after 
noon  patiently  sketching  the  statue  and  the  archi 
tecture  at  Columbus  Circle.  Tossing  it  aside  with 
a  sneer,  the  professor  informed  her  that  Giotto  had 
once  drawn  a  perfect  circle  with  one  sweep  of  his 
hand. 

One  day  it  rained,  the  weekly  remittance  from  Har- 


202  The  Voice  of  the  City 

mony  was  overdue,  Medora  had  a  headache,  the  pro 
fessor  had  tried  to  borrow  two  dollars  from  her,  her 
art  dealer  had  sent  back  all  her  water-colors  unsold, 
and  —  Mr.  Binkley  asked  her  out  to  dinner. 

Mr.  Binkley  was  the  gay  boy  of  the  boarding- 
house.  He  was  forty-nine,  and  owned  a  fishstall  in 
a  downtown  market.  But  after  six  o'clock  he  wore 
an  evening  suit  and  wThooped  things  up  connected 
with  the  beaux  arts.  The  young  men  said  he  was  an 
"Indian."  He  was  supposed  to  be  an  accomplished 
habitue  of  the  inner  circles  of  Bohemia.  It  was  no 
secret  that  he  had  once  loaned  $10  to  a  young  man 
who  had  had  a  drawing  printed  in  Puck.  Often  has 
one  thus  obtained  his  entree  into  the  charmed  circle, 
while  the  other  obtained  both  his  entree  and  roast. 

The  other  boarders  enviously  regarded  Medora  as 
she  left  at  Mr.  Binkley's  side  at  nine  o'clock.  She 
was  as  sweet  as  a  cluster  of  dried  autumn  grasses 
in  her  pale  blue  —  oh  —  er  —  that  very  thin  stuff 
—  in  her  pale  blue  Comstockized  silk  waist  and  box- 
pleated  voile  skirt,  with  a  soft  pink  glow  on  her  thin 
cheeks  and  the  tiniest  bit  of  rouge  powder  on  her 
face,  with  her  handkerchief  and  room  key  in  her 
brown  walrus,  pebble-grain  hand-bag. 

And  Mr.  Binkley  looked  imposing  and  dashing  with 
his  red  face  and  gray  mustache,  and  his  tight  dress 
coat,  that  made  the  back  of  his  neck  roll  up  just 
like  a  successful  novelist's. 


Extradited  from  Bohemia  203 

They  drove  in  a  cab  to  the  Cafe  Terence,  just  off 
the  most  glittering  part  of  Broadway,  which,  as 
every  one  knows,  is  one  of  the  most  popular  and 
widely  patronized,  jealously  exclusive  Bohemian  re 
sorts  in  the  city. 

Down  between  the  rows  of  little  tables  tripped 
Medora,  of  the  Green  Mountains,  after  her  escort. 
Thrice  in  a  lifetime  may  woman  walk  upon  clouds  — 
once  when  she  trippeth  to  the  altar,  once  when  she 
first  enters  Bohemian  halls,  the  last  when  she  marches 
back  across  her  first  garden  with  the  dead  hen  of  her 
neighbor  in  her  hand. 

There  was  a  table  set,  with  three  or  four  about  it. 
A  waiter  buzzed  around  it  like  a  bee,  and  silver  and 
glass  shone  upon  it.  And,  preliminary  to  the  meal, 
as  the  prehistoric  granite  strata  heralded  the  pro 
tozoa,  the  bread  of  Gaul,  compounded  after  the  for 
mula  of  the  recipe  for  the  eternal  hills,  was  there  set 
forth  to  the  hand  and  tooth  of  a  long-suffering  city, 
while  the  gods  lay  beside  their  nectar  and  home-made 
biscuits  and  smiled,  and  the  dentists  leaped  for  joy 
in  their  gold-leafy  dens. 

The  eye  of  Binkley  fixed  a  young  man  at  his  table 
with  the  Bohemian  gleam,  which  is  a  compound  of 
the  look  of  the  Basilisk,  the  shine  of  a  bubble  of 
Wurzburger,  the  inspiration  of  genius  and  the  plead 
ing  of  a  panhandler. 

The  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet.     "Hello,  Bink, 


204  The  Voice  of  the  City 

old  boy!"  he  shouted.  "Don't  tell  me  you  were  go 
ing  to  pass  our  table.  Join  us  —  unless  you've  an 
other  crowd  on  hand." 

"Don't  mind,  old  chap,"  said  Binkley,  of  the  fish- 
stall.  "You  know  how  I  like  to  butt  up  against  the 
fine  arts.  Mr.  Vandyke  —  Mr.  Madder  —  er— 
Miss  Martin,  one  of  the  elect  also  in  art  — er  — 

The  introduction  went  around.  There  were  also 
Miss  Elise  and  Miss  'Toinette.  Perhaps  they  were 
models,  for  they  chattered  of  the  St.  Regis  decora 
tions  and  Henry  James  —  and  they  did  it  not  badly. 

Medora  sat  in  transport.  Music  —  wild,  intoxi 
cating  music  made  by  troubadours  direct  from  a  rear 
basement  room  in  Elysium  —  set  her  thoughts  to 
dancing.  Here  was  a  world  never  before  penetrated 
by  her  warmest  imagination  or  any  of  the  lines  con 
trolled  by  Harriman.  With  the  Green  Mountains' 
external  calm  upon  her  she  sat,  her  soul  flaming  in 
her  with  the  fire  of  Andalusia.  The  tables  were  filled 
with  Bohemia.  The  room  was  full  of  the  fragrance 
of  flowers  —  both  mille  and  cauli.  Questions  and 
corks  popped;  laughter  and  silver  rang;  champagne 
flashed  in  the  pail,  wit  flashed  in  the  pan. 

Vandyke  ruffled  his  long,  black  locks,  disarranged 
his  careless  tie  and  leaned  over  to  Madder. 

"Say,  Maddy,"  he  whispered,  feelingly,  "some 
times  I'm  tempted  to  pay  this  Philistine  his  ten  doi- 
lars  and  get  rid  of  him." 


Extradited  from  Bohemia  205 

Madder  ruffled  his  long,  sandy  locks  and  disar 
ranged  his  careless  tie. 

"Don't  think  of  it,  Vandy,"  he  replied.  "We  are 
short,  and  Art  is  long." 

Medora  ate  strange  viands  and  drank  elderberry 
wine  that  they  poured  in  her  glass.  It  was  just  the 
color  of  that  in  the  Vermont  home.  The  waiter 
poured  something  in  another  glass  that  seemed  to 
be  boiling,  but  when  she  tasted  it  it  was  not  hot.  She 
had  never  felt  so  light-hearted  before.  She  thought 
lovingly  of  the  Green  Mountain  farm  and  its  fauna. 
She  leaned,  smiling,  to  Miss  Elisc. 

"If  I  were  at  home,"  she  said,  beamingly,  "I  could 
show  you  the  cutest  little  calf !" 

"Nothing  for  you  in  the  White  Lane,"  said  Miss 
Elise.  "Why  don't  you  pad?" 

The  orchestra  played  a  wailing  waltz  that  Medora 
had  learned  from  the  hand-organs.  She  followed 
the  air  with  nodding  head  in  a  sweet  soprano  hum. 
Madder  looked  across  the  table  at  her,  and  wondered 
in  what  strange  waters  Binkley  had  caught  her  in 
bis  seine.  She  smiled  at  him,  and  they  raised  glasses 
and  drank  of  the  wine  that  boiled  when  it  was  cold. 
Binkley  had  abandoned  art  and  was  prating  of  the 
unusual  spring  catch  of  shad.  Miss  Elise  arranged 
the  palette-and-maul-stick  tie  pin  of  Mr.  Vandyke. 
A  Philistine  at  some  distant  table  was  maundering 
volubly  either  about  Jerome  or  Gerome.  A  famous 


206  The  Voice  of  the  City 

actress  was  discoursing  excitably  about  monogrammed 
hosiery.  A  hose  clerk  from  a  department  store  was 
loudly  proclaiming  his  opinions  of  the  drama.  A 
writer  was  abusing  Dickens.  A  magazine  editor  and 
a  photographer  were  drinking  a  dry  brand  at  a  re 
served  table.  A  36-25-42  young  lad}^  was  saying  to 
an  eminent  sculptor :  "Fudge  for  your  Prax  Itahrs ! 
Bring  one  of  your  Venus  Anno  Dominis  down  to 
Cohen's  and  see  how  quickty  she'd  be  turned  down  for 
a  cloak  model.  Back  to  the  quarries  with  your 
Greeks  and  Dagos !" 

Thus  went  Bohemia. 

At  eleven  Mr.  Binkley  took  Medora  to  the  board 
ing-house  and  left  her,  with  a  society  bow,  at  the  foot 
of  the  hall  stairs.  She  went  up  to  her  room  and  lit 
the  gas. 

And  then,  as  suddenly  as  the  dreadful  genie  arose 
in  vapor  from  the  copper  vase  of  the  fisherman, 
arose  in  that  room  the  formidable  shape  of  the  New 
England  Conscience.  The  terrible  thing  that  Me 
dora  had  done  was  revealed  to  her  in  its  full  enor 
mity.  She  had  sat  in  the  presence  of  the  ungodly 
and  looked  upon  the  wine  both  when  it  was  red  and 
effervescent. 

At  midnight  she  wrote  this  letter: 

"MR.  BERIAH  HOSKLNS,  Harmony,  Vermont. 

"Dear  Sir:     Henceforth,  consider  me  as  dead  to 


Extradited  from  Bohemia  207 

you  forever.  I  have  loved  you  too  well  to  blight  your 
career  by  bringing  into  it  my  guilty  and  sin-stained 
life.  I  have  succumbed  to  the  insidious  wiles  of  this 
wicked  world  and  have  been  drawn  into  the  vortex  of 
Bohemia.  There  is  scarcely  any  depth  of  glittering 
iniquity  that  I  have  not  sounded.  It  is  hopeless  to 
combat  my  decision.  There  is  no  rising  from  the 
depths  to  which  I  have  sunk.  Endeavor  to  forget 
me.  I  am  lost  forever  in  the  fair  but  brutal  maze 
of  awful  Bohemia.  Farewell. 

"ONCE  YOUR  MEDORA." 

On  the  next  day  Medora  formed  her  resolutions. 
Beelzebub,  flung  from  heaven,  was  no  more  cast  down. 
Between  her  and  the  apple  blossoms  of  Harmony 
there  was  a  fixed  gulf.  Flaming  cherubim  warded  her 
from  the  gates  of  her  lost  paradise.  In  one  evening, 
by  the  aid  of  Binkley  and  Mumm,  Bohemia  had  gath 
ered  her  into  its  awful  midst. 

There  remained  to  her  but  one  thing — a  life  of 
brilliant,  but  irremediable  error.  Vermont  was  a 
shrine  that  she  never  would  dare  to  approach  again. 
But  she  would  not  sink  —  there  were  great  and  com 
pelling  ones  in  history^  upon  whom  she  would  model 
her  meteoric  career  —  Camille,  Lola  Montez,  Royal 
Mary,  Zaza  —  such  a  name  as  one  of  these  would 
that  of  Medora  Martin  be  to  future  generations. 

For  two  days  Medora  kept  her  room.     On  the  third 


208  The  Voice  of  the  City 

she  opened  a  magazine  at  the  portrait  of  the  King 
of  Belgium,  and  laughed  sardonically.  If  that  far- 
famed  breaker  of  women's  hearts  should  cross  her 
path,  he  would  have  to  how  before  her  cold  and  im 
perious  beauty.  She  would  not  spare  the  old  or  the 
young.  All  America  —  all  Europe  should  do  hom 
age  to  her  sinister,  but  compelling  charm. 

As  yet  she  could  not  bear  to  think  of  the  life  she 
had  once  desired  —  a  peaceful  one  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Green  Mountains  with  Beriah  at  her  side,  and 
orders  for  expensive  oil  paintings  coming  in  by  each 
mail  from  New  York.  Her  one  fatal  misstep  had 
shattered  that  dream. 

On  the  fourth  day  Medora  powdered  her  face  and 
rouged  her  lips.  Once  she  had  seen  Carter  in 
"Zaza."  She  stood  before  the  mirror  in  a  reckless 
attitude  and  cried:  "Zut!  zut!"  She  rhymed  it 
with  "nut,"  but  with  the  lawless  word  Harmony 
seemed  to  pass  away  forever.  The  Vortex  had  her. 
She  belonged  to  Bohemia  for  evermore.  And  never 
would  Beriah 

The  door  opened  and  Beriah  walked  in. 

"  'Dory,"  said  he,  "what's  all  that  chalk  and  pink  \ 
stuff  on  your  face,  honey?" 

Medora  extended  an  arm. 

"Too  late,"  she  said,  solemnly.  "The  die  is  cast 
I  belong  in  another  world.  Curse  me  if  you  will  — 
it  is  your  right.  Go,  and  leave  me  in  the  path  1 


Extradited  from  Bohemia  2C9 

have  chosen.  Bid  them  all  at  home  never  to  mention 
my  name  again.  And  sometimes,  Boriah,  pray  for  me 
when  I  am  revelling  in  the  gaudy,  but  hollow,  pleas 
ures  of  Bohemia." 

"Get  a  towel,  'Dory,"  said  Beriah,  "and  wipe  that 
paint  off  your  face.  I  came  as  soon  as  I  got  your 
letter.  Them  pictures  of  yours  ain't  amounting  to 
anything.  I've  got  tickets  for  both  of  us  back  on 
the  evening  train.  Hurry  and  get  your  things  in 
vour  trunk." 

*>' 

"Fate  was  too  strong  for  me,  Beriah.  Go  while 
I  am  strong  to  bear  it." 

"How  do  you  fold  this  easel,  'Dory?  —  now  begin\ 
to  pack,  so  we  have  time  to  eat  before  train  time. 
The  maples  is  all  out  in  full-grown  leaves,  'Dory  —  ' 
you  just  ought  to  see  'em !" 

"Not  this  early,  Beriah?" 

"You  ought  to  see  'em,  'Dory;  they're  like  an 
ocean  of  green  in  the  morning  sunlight." 

"Oh?  Beriah !" 

On  the  train  she  said  to  him  suddenly: 

"I  wonder  why  you  came  when  you  got  my  let 
ter." 

"Oh,  shucks!"  said  Beriah.  #*Did  you  think  you 
could  fool  me?  How  could  you  be  run  away  to  that 
Bohemia  country  like  you  said  when  your  letter  was 
postmarked  New  York  as  plain  as  day?" 


A  PHILISTINE  IN  BOHEMIA 

GEORGE  WASHINGTON,  with  his  right  arm  up 
raised,  sits  his  iron  horse  at  the  lower  corner  of 
Union  Square,  forever  signalling  the  Broadway  cars 
to  stop  as  they  round  the  curve  into  Fourteenth 
Street.  But  the  cars  buzz  on,  heedless,  as  they  do  at 
the  beck  of  a  private  citizen,  and  the  great  General 
must  feel,  unless  his  nerves  are  iron,  that  rapid 
transit  gloria  mundi. 

Should  the  General  raise  his  left  hand  as  he  has 
raised  his  right  it  would  point  to  a  quarter  of  the 
city  that  forms  a  haven  for  the  oppressed  and  sup 
pressed  of  foreign  lands.  In  the  cause  of  national 
or  personal  freedom  they  have  found  a  refuge  here, 
and  the  patriot  who  made  it  for  them  sits  his  steed, 
overlooking  their  district,  while  he  listens  through  his 
left  ear  to  vaudeville  that  caricatures  the  posterity 
of  his  proteges.  Italy,  Poland,  the  former  Spanish 
possessions  and  the  polyglot  tribes  of  Austria-Hun 
gary  have  spilled  here  a  thick  lather  of  their  effer 
vescent  sons.  In  the  eccentric  cafes  and  lodging- 
houses  of  the  vicinity  they  hover  over  their  native 
wines  and  political  secrets.  The  colony  changes 
with  much  frequency.  Faces  disappear  from  the 

210 


A  Philistine  in  Bohemia  211 

haunts  to  be  replaced  by  others.  Whither  do  these 
uneasy  birds  fit?  For  half  of  the  answer  observe 
carefully  the  suave  foreign  air  and  foreign  courtesy 
of  the  next  waiter  who  serves  your  table  d'hote. 
For  the  other  half,  perhaps  if  the  barber  shops  had 
tongues  (and  who  will  dispute  it?)  they  could  tell 
their  share. 

Titles  are  as  plentiful  as  finger  rings  among  these 
transitory  exiles.  For  lack  of  proper  exploitation  a 
stock  of  title  goods  large  enough  to  supply  the  trade 
of  upper  Fifth  Avenue  is  here  condemned  to  a  mere 
pushcart  traffic.  The  new-world  landlords  who  en 
tertain  these  offshoots  of  nobility  are  not  dazzled  by 
coronets  and  crests.  They  have  doughnuts  to  sell 
instead  of  daughters.  With  them  it  is  a  serious 
matter  of  trading  in  flour  and  sugar  instead  of  pearl 
powder  and  bonbons. 

These  assertions  are  deemed  fitting  as  an  intro 
duction  to  the  tale,  which  is  of  plebeians  and  contains 
no  one  with  even  the  ghost  of  a  title. 

Katy  Dempsey's  mother  kept  a  furnished-room 
house  in  this  oasis  of  the  aliens.  The  business  was 
not  profitable.  If  the  two  scraped  together  enough 
to  meet  the  landlord's  agent  on  rent  day  and  nego 
tiate  for  the  ingredients  of  a  daily  Irish  stew  they 
called  it  success.  Often  the  stew  lacked  both  meat 
and  potatoes.  Sometimes  it  became  as  bad  as  con 
somme  with  music. 


212  The  Voice  of  the  City 

In  this  mouldy  old  house  Katy  waxed  plump  and 
pert  and  wholesome  and  as  beautiful  and  freckled  as 
a  tiger  lily.  She  was  the  good  fairy  who  was  guilt\- 
of  placing  the  damp  clean  towels  and  cracked  pitchers 
of  freshly  laundered  Croton  in  the  lodgers'  rooms. 

You  are  informed  (by  virtue  of  the  privileges  of 
astronomical  discovery)  that  the  star  lodger's  name 
was  Mr.  Brunelli.  His  wearing  a  yellow  tic  and  pay 
ing  his  rent  promptly  distinguished  him  from  the 
other  lodgers.  His  raiment  was  splendid,  his  com 
plexion  olive,  his  mustache  fierce,  his  manners  a. 
prince's,  his  rings  and  pins  as  magnificent  as  those 
of  a  travelling  dentist. 

He  had  breakfast  served  in  his  room,  and  he  ate  it 
in  a  red  dressing  gown  with  green  tassels.  He  left 
the  house  at  noon  and  returned  at  midnight.  Those 
were  mysterious  hours,  but  there  was  nothing  mys 
terious  about  Mrs.  Deinpsey's  lodgers  except  the 
things  that  were  not  mysterious.  One  of  Mr.  Kip 
ling's  poems  is  addressed  to  "Ye  who  hold  the  un 
written  clue  to  all  save  all  unwritten  things."  The 
same  "readers*'  are  invited  to  tackle  the  foregoing 
assertion. 

Mr.  Brunelli,  being  impressionable  and  a  Latin, 
fell  to  conjugating  the  verb  "amare,"  with  Katy  in 
the  objective  case,  though  not  because  of  antipathy. 
She  talked  it  over  with  her  mother. 

"Sure,  I  like  him,"  said  Katy.     "He's  more  polite- 


A  Philistine  in  Bohemia  213 

ness  than  twinty  candidates  for  Alderman,  and  he 
makes  me  feel  like  a  queen  whin  he  walks  at  me  side. 
But  what  is  he,  I  dinno?  I've  me  suspicions.  The 
marnin'Il  cooiu  whin  he'll  throt  out  the  picture  av  his 
baronial  halls  and  ax  to  have  the  week's  rint  hung  up 
in  the  ice  chist  along  wid  all  the  rist  of  'em." 

"'Tis  thrue,"  admitted  Mrs.  Dempsey,  "that  he 
seems  to  be  a  sort  iv  a  Dago,  and  too  coolchured  in 
his  spaclie  for  a  rale  gintlernan.  But  ye  may  be 
inisjudgin9  him.  Ye  should  niver  suspect  any  wan  of 
bein'  of  noble  descint  that  pays  cash  and  pathronizes 
the  laundry  rig'lar." 

"He's  the  same  thricks  of  spakin'  and  blarneyin' 
wid  his  hands,"  sighed  Katy,  "as  the  Frinch  noble 
man  at  Mrs.  Toole's  that  ran  away  wid  Mr.  Toole's 
Sunday  pants  and  left  the  photograph  of  the  Bastile, 
his  grandfather's  chat-taw,  as  security  for  tin  weeks' 
rint." 

Mr.  Brunelli  continued  his  calorific  wooing.  Katy 
continued  to  hesitate.  One  day  he  asked  her  out  to 
<line  and  she  felt  that  a  denouement  was  in  the  air. 
While  they  are  on  their  way,  with  Katy  in  her  best 
muslin,  you  must  take  as  an  entr'acte  a  brief  peep  at 
New  York's  Bohemia. 

'Tonio's  restaurant  is  in  Bohemia.  The  very  loca 
tion  of  it  is  secret.  If  you  wish  to  know  where  it  is 
ask  the  first  person  you  meet.  He  will  tell  you  in  a 
whisper.  'Tonio  discountenances  custom ;  he  keeps 


214  The  Voice  of  the  City 

his  house-front  black  and  forbidding ;  he  gives  you  a 
pretty  bad  dinner;  he  locks  his  door  at  the  dining 
hour;  but  he  knows  spaghetti  as  the  boarding-house 
knows  cold  veal ;  and  —  he  has  deposited  many  dollars 

in  a  certain  Banco  di something  with  many  gold 

vowels  in  the  name  on  its  windows. 

To  this  restaurant  Mr.  Brunelli  conducted  Katy. 
The  house  was  dark  and  the  shades  were  lowered ;  but 
Mr.  Brunelli  touched  an  electric  button  by  the  base 
ment  door,  and  they  were  admitted. 

Along  a  long,  dark,  narrow  hallway  thejr  went  an<l 
then  through  a  shining  and  spotless  kitchen  that- 
opened  directly  upon  a  back  yard. 

The  walls  of  houses  hemmed  three  sides  of  the 
yard;  a  high,  board  fence,  surrounded  by  cats,  the 
other.  A  wash  of  clothes  was  suspended  high  upon 
a  line  stretched  from  diagonal  corners.  Those  were 
property  clothes,  and  were  never  taken  in  by  'Tonio. 
They  were  there  that  wits  with  defective  pronuncia 
tion  might  make  puns  in  connection  with  the  ragout. 

A  dozen  and  a  half  little  tables  set  up  the  bare 
ground  were  crowded  with  Bohemia-hunters,  who 
flocked  there  because  'Tonio  pretended  not  to  want 
them  and  pretended  to  give  them  a  good  dinner. 
There  was  a  sprinkling  of  real  Bohemians  present 
who  came  for  a  change  because  they  were  tired  of 
the  real  Bohemia,  and  a  smart  shower  of  the  men  who 
originate  the  bright  sayings  of  Congressmen  and  the 


A  Philistine  in  Bohemia  215 

little  nephew  of  the  well-known  general  passenger 
agent  of  the  Evansville  and  Terre  Haute  Railroad 
Company. 

Here  is  a  bon  mot  that  was  manufactured  at 
'Tonio's: 

"A  dinner  at  'Tonio's,"  said  a  Bohemian,  "always 
amounts  to  twice  the  price  that  is  asked  for  it." 

Let  us  assume  that  an  accommodating  voice  in 
quires  : 

"How  so?" 

"The  dinner  costs  you  40  cents ;  you  give  10  cents 
to  the  waiter,  and  it  makes  you  feel  like  30  cents." 

Most  of  the  diners  were  confirmed  table  d'hoters  — 
gastronomic  adventurers,  forever  seeking  the  El 
Dorado  of  a  good  claret,  and  consistently  coming  to 
grief  in  California. 

Mr.  Brunelli  escorted  Katy  to  a  little  table  em 
bowered  with  shrubbery  in  tubs,  and  asked  her  to 
excuse  him  for  a  while. 

Katy  sat,  enchanted  by  a  scene  so  brilliant  to  her. 
The  grand  ladies,  in  splendid  dresses  and  plumes  and 
sparkling  rings;  the  fine  gentlemen  who  laughed  so 
loudly,  the  cries  of  "Garsong!"  and  "We,  monscer," 
and  "Hello,  Mame!"  that  distinguish  Bohemia;  the 
lively  chatter,  the  cigarette  smoke,  the  interchange 
of  bright  smiles  and  eye-glances  —  all  this  display 
and  magnificence  overpowered  the  daughter  of  Mrs. 
Dempscy  and  held  her  motionless. 


210  The  Voice  of  the  City 

Mr.  Brunelli  stepped  into  the  yard  and  seemed  to 
spread  his  smile  and  bow  over  the  entire  company. 
And  everywhere  there  was  a  great  clapping  of  hands 
and  a  few  cries  of  "Bravo !"  and  "  'Tonio !  'Tonio !" 
whatever  those  words  might  mean.  Ladies  waved 
their  napkins  at  him,  gentlemen  almost  twisted  their 
necks  off,  trying  to  catch  his  nod. 

When  the  ovation  was  concluded  Mr.  Brunelli,  with 
a  final  bow,  stepped  nimbly  into  the  kitchen  and  flung 
off  his  coat  and  waistcoat. 

Flaherty,  the  nimblest  "gar  song"  among  the 
waiters,  had  been  assigned  to  the  special  service  of 
ICaty.  She  was  a  little  faint  from  hunger,  for  the 
Irish  stew  on  the  Dempsey  table  had  been  particu 
larly  weak  that  day.  Delicious  odors  from  unknown 
dishes  tantalized  her.  And  Flaherty  began  to  bring 
to  her  table  course  after  course  of  ambrosial  food 
that  the  gods  might  have  pronounced  excellent. 

But  even  in  the  midst  of  her  Lucullian  repast  Katy 
laid  down  her  knife  and  fork.  Her  heart  sank  as 
lead,  and  a  tear  fell  upon  her  filet  mignon.  Her 
haunting  suspicions  of  the  star  lodger  arose  again, 
fourfold.  Thus  courted  and  admired  and  smiled 
upon  by  that  fashionable  and  gracious  assembly, 
what  else  could  Mr.  Brunelli  be  but  one  of  these 
dazzling  titled  patricians,  glorious  of  name  but  shy 
of  rent  money,  concerning  whom  experience  had  made 
her  wise?  With  a  sense  of  his  ineligibility  growing 


A  Philistine  in  Bohemia  217 

within  her  there  was  mingled  a  torturing  conviction 
that  his  personality  was  becoming  more  pleasing  to 
her  day  by  day.  And  why  had  he  left  her  to  dine 
alone? 

But  here  he  was  coining  again,  now  coatless,  his 
snowy  shirt-sleeves  rolled  high  above  his  Jeffries- 
onian  elbows,  a  white  yachting  cap  perched  upon  his 
jetty  curls. 

"'Tonio!  Tonio!"  shouted  many,  and  "The 
spaghetti !  The  spaghetti  1"  shouted  the  rest. 

Never  at  Tonio's  did  a  waiter  dare  to  serve  a  dish 
of  spaghetti  until  'Tonio  came  to  test  it,  to  prove 
the  sauce  and  add  the  needful  dash  of  seasoning  that 
gave  it  perfection. 

From  table  to  table  moved  'Tonio,  like  a  prince  in 
his  palaces  greeting  his  guests.  White,  jewelled 
hands  signalled  him  from  every  side. 

A  glass  of  wine  with  this  one  and  that,  smiles  for 
all,  a  jest  and  repartee  for  any  that  might  challenge 
—  truly  few  princes  could  be  so  agreeable  a  host! 
And  what  artist  could  ask  for  further  appreciation 
of  his  handiwork?  Katy  did  not  know  that  the 
proudest  consummation  of  a  New  Yorker's  ambition  , 
is  to  shake  hands  with  a  spaghetti  chef  or  to  receive 
a  nod  from  a  Broadway  head-waiter. 

At  last  the  company  thinned,  leaving  but  a  few 
couples  and  quartettes  lingering  over  new  wine  and 
old  stories.  And  then  came  Mr.  Brunelli  to  Katy's 


218  The  Voice  of  the  City 

secluded    table,    and    drew    a    chair    close    to    hers. 

Katy  smiled  at  him  dreamily.  She  was  eating  the 
last  spoonful  of  a  raspberry  roll  with  Burgundy 
sauce. 

"You  have  seen!"  said  Mr.  Brunelli,  laying  one 
hand  upon  his  collar  bone.  "I  am  Antonio  Brunelli ! 
Yes ;  I  am  the  great  'Tonio !  You  have  not  suspect 
that !  I  loave  you,  Katy,  and  you  shall  marry  with 
me.  Is  it  not  so?  Call  me  *Antonio,'  and  say  that 
you  will  be  mine." 

Katy's  head  drooped  to  the  shoulder  that  was 
now  freed  from  all  suspicion  of  having  received  the 
knightly  accolade. 

"Oh,  Andy,"  she  sighed,  "this  is  great!  Sure, 
I'll  marry  wid  ye.  But  why  didn't  ye  tell  me  ye  was 
the  cook?  I  was  near  turnin'  ye  down  for  bein'  one 
of  thim  foreign  counts  !" 


FROM  EACH  ACCORDING  TO  HIS 
ABILITY 

VUYNING  left  his  club,  cursing  it  softly,  without 
any  particular  anger.  From  ten  in  the  morning 
until  eleven  it  had  bored  him  immeasurably.  Kirk 
with  his  fish  story,  Brooks  with  his  Porto  Rico  cigars, 
old  Morrison  with  his  anecdote  about  the  widow,  Hep 
burn  with  his  invariable  luck  at  billiards  —  all  these 
afflictions  had  been  repeated  without  change  of  bill  or 
scenery.  Besides  these  morning  evils  Miss  Alison 
had  refused  him  again  on  the  night  before.  But  that 
was  a  chronic  trouble.  Five  times  she  had  laughed  at 
his  offer  to  make  her  Mrs.  Vuyning.  He  intended  to 
ask  her  again  the  next  Wednesday  evening. 

Vuyning  walked  along  Forty-fourth  Street  to 
Broadway,  and  then  drifted  down  the  great  sluice 
that  washes  out  the  dust  of  the  gold-mines  of  Gotham. 
He  wore  a  morning  suit  of  light  gray,  low,  dull  kid 
shoes,  a  plain,  finely  woven  straw  hat,  and  his  visible 
linen  was  the  most  delicate  possible  shade  of  helio 
trope.  His  necktie  was  the  blue-gray  of  a  November 
sky,  and  its  knot  was  plainly  the  outcome  of  a  lordly 
carelessness  combined  with  an  accurate  conception  of 
the  most  recent  dictum  of  fashion. 

Now,  to  write  of  a  man's  haberdashery  is  a  worse 
219 


220  The  Voice  of  the  City 

thing  than  to  write  a  historical  novel  "around" 
Paul  Jones,  or  to  pen  a  testimonial  to  a  hay-fever 
cure. 

Therefore,  let  it  be  known  that  the  description  of 
Vuyning's  apparel  is  germane  to  the  movements  of 
the  storjr,  and  not  to  make  room  for  the  new  fall 
stock  of  goods. 

Even  Broadway  that  morning  was  a  discord  in 
Vuyning's  ears ;  and  in  his  eyes  it  paralleled  for  a 
few  dreamy,  dreary  minutes  a  certain  howling, 
scorching,  seething,  malodorous  slice  of  street  that 
he  remembered  in  Morocco.  lie  saw  the  struggling 
mass  of  dogs,  beggars,  fakirs,  slave-drivers  and 
veiled  women  in  carts  without  horses,  the  sun  blaz 
ing  brightly  among  the  bazaars,  the  piles  of  rubbish 
from  ruined  temples  in  the  street  —  and  then  a  lady, 
passing,  jabbed  the  ferrule  of  a  parasol  in  his  side 
and  brought  him  back  to  Broadway. 

Five  minutes  of  his  stroll  brought  him  to  a  certain 
corner,  where  a  number  of  silent,  pale-faced  men  are 
accustomed  to  stand,  immovably,  for  hours,  busy 
with  the  file  blades  of  their  penknives,  with  their  hat 
brims  on  a  level  with  their  ej^elids.  Wall  Street 
speculators,  driving  home  in  their  carriages,  love  to 
point  out  these  men  to  their  visiting  friends  and  tell 
them  of  this  rather  famous  lounging-place  of  the 
"crooks."  On  Wall  Street  the  speculators  never 
use  the  file  blades  of  their  knives. 


Each  According  to  His  Ability      221 

Vuyning  was  delighted  when  one  of  this  company 
stepped  forth  and  addressed  him  as  he  was  passing. 
He  was  hungry  for  something  out  of  the  ordinary, 
and  to  be  accosted  by  this  smooth-faced,  keen-eyed, 
low-voiced,  athletic  member  of  the  under  world,  with 
his  grim,  yet  pleasant  smile,  had  all  the  taste  of  an 
adventure  to  the  convention-weary  Vuyning. 

"Excuse  me,  friend,"  said  he.  "Could  I  have  a 
few  minutes'  talk  with  you  —  on  the  level?" 

"Certainly,"  said  Vuyning,  with  a  smile.  "But, 
suppose  we  step  aside  to  a  quieter  place.  There  is  a 
divan  —  a  cafe  over  here  that  will  do.  Schrumni 
will  give  us  a  private  corner." 

Schrumm  established  them  under  a  growing  palm, 
with  two  seidls  between  them.  Vuyning  made  a 
pleasant  reference  to  meteorological  conditions,  thus 
forming  a  hinge  upon  which  might  be  swung  the 
door  leading  from  the  thought  repository  of  the 
other, 

"In  the  first  place,"  said  his  companion,  with  the 
air  of  one  who  presents  his  credentials,  "I  want  you 
to  understand  that  I  am  a  crook.  Out  West  I  am 
known  as  Rowdy  the  Dude.  Pickpocket,  supper  man, 
second-story  man,  yeggman,  boxman,  all-round  bur 
glar,  card-sharp  and  slickest  con  man  west  of  the 
Twenty- third  Street  ferry  landing  —  that's  my  his 
tory.  That's  to  show  I'm  on  the  square  —  with  you. 
My  name's  Emerson." 


222  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"Confound  old  Kirk  with  his  fish  stories,"  said 
Vuyning  to  himself,  with  silent  glee  as  he  went 
through  his  pockets  for  a  card.  "It's  pronounced 
'Vining,' "  he  said,  as  he  tossed  it  over  to  the  other. 
"And  I'll  be  as  frank  with  you.  I'm  just  a  kind  of 
a  loafer,  I  guess,  living  on  my  daddy's  money.  At 
the  club  they  call  me  'Left-at-the-Post.'  I  never  did 
a  day's  work  in  my  life;  and  I  haven't  the  heart  to 
run  over  a  chicken  when  I'm  motoring.  It's  a  pretty 
shabby  record,  altogether." 

"There's  one  thing  you  can  do,"  said  Emerson, 
admiringly ;  "you  can  carry  duds.  I've  watched  you 
several  times  pass  on  Broadway.  You  look  the  best 
dressed  man  I've  seen.  And  I'll  bet  you  a  gold  mine 
I've  got  $50  worth  more  gent's  furnishings  on  my 
frame  than  you  have.  That's  what  I  wanted  to  see 
you  about.  I  can't  do  the  trick.  Take  a  look  at 
me.  What's  wrong?" 

"Stand  up,"  said  Vuyning. 

Emerson  arose,  and  slowly  revolved. 

"You've  been  'outfitted,'"  declared  the  clubman. 
"Some  Broadway  window-dresser  has  misused  you. 
That's  an  expensive  suit,  though,  Emerson." 

"A  hundred  dollars,"  said  Emerson. 

"Twenty  too  much,"  said  Vuyning.  "Six  months 
old  in  cut,  one  inch  too  long,  and  half  an  inch  too 
much  lapel.  Your  hat  is  plainly  dated  one  year  ago, 
although  there's  only  a  sixteenth  of  an  inch  lacking 


Each  According  to  His  'Ability      223 

in  the  brim  to  tell  the  story.  That  English  poke  in 
your  collar  is  too  short  by  the  distance  between  Troy 
and  London.  A  plain  gold  link  cuff-button  would 
take  all  the  shine  out  of  those  pearl  ones  with  dia 
mond  settings.  Those  tan  shoes  would  be  exactly 
the  articles  to  work  into  the  heart  of  a  Brooklyn 
school-ma'am  on  a  two  weeks'  visit  to  Lake  Ronkon- 
koma.  I  think  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  blue  silk 
sock  embroidered  with  russet  lilies  of  the  valley  when 
you  —  improperly  —  drew  up  your  trousers  as  you 
sat  down.  There  are  always  plain  ones  to  be  had 
in  the  stores.  Have  I  hurt  your  feelings,  Emer 
son?" 

"Double  the  ante !"  cried  the  criticised  one,  greed 
ily.  "Give  me  more  of  it.  There's  a  way  to  tote 
the  haberdashery,  and  I  want  to  get  wise  to  it.  Say, 
you're  the  right  kind  of  a  swell.  Anything  else  to 
the  queer  about  me  ?" 

"Your  tie,"  said  Vuyning,  "is  tied  with  absolute 

precision  and  correctness." 

"Thanks,"  gratefully — "I  spent  over  half  an  hour 

at  it  before  I " 

"Thereby,"     interrupted     Vuyning,     "completing 

your  resemblance  to  a  dummy  in  a  Broadway  store 

window." 

"Yours  truly,"  said  Emerson,  sitting  down  again. 

"It's  bully  of  you  to  put  me  wise.     I  knew  there 

was  something  wrong,  but  I  couldn't  just  put  my 


224  The  Voice  of  the  City 

finger  on  it.  I  guess  it  comes  by  nature  to  know  how 
to  wear  clothes." 

"Oh,  I  suppose,"  said  Vuyning,  with  a  laugh, 
"that  my  ancestors  picked  up  the  knack  while  they 
were  peddling  clothes  from  house  to  house  a  couple 
of  hundred  years  ago.  I'm  told  they  did  that." 

"And  mine,"  said  Emerson,  cheerfully,  "were 
making  their  visits  at  night,  I  guess,  and  didn't  have 
a  chance  to  catch  on  to  the  correct  styles." 

"I  tell  you  what,"  said  Vuyning,  whose  ennui  had 
taken  wings,  "I'll  take  you  to  my  tailor.  He'll 
eliminate  the  mark  of  the  beast  from  your  exterior. 
That  is,  if  you  care  to  go  any  further  in  the  way 
of  expense." 

"Play  'em  to  the  ceiling,"  said  Emerson,  with  a 
boyish  smile  of  joy.  "I've  got  a  roll  as  big  around 
as  a  barrel  of  black-eyed  peas  and  as  loose  as  the 
wrapper  of  a  two-for-fiver.  I  don't  mind  telling  you 
that  I  was  not  touring  among  the  Antipodes  when 
the  burglar-proof  safe  of  the  Farmers'  National 
Bank  of  Butterville,  la.,  flew  open  some  moonless 
nights  ago  to  the  tune  of  $16,000." 

"Aren't  you  afraid,"  asked  Vuyning,  "that  I'll  call 
a  cop  and  hand  you  over?" 

"You  tell  me,"  said  Emerson,  coolly,  "why  I  didn't 
keep  them." 

He  laid  Vuyning's  pocketbook  and  watch  —  the 
Vuyning  100-year-old  family  watch  —  on  the  table. 


Each  According  to  His  Ability      225 

"Man,"  said  Vuyning,  revelling,  "did  you  ever  hear 
the  tale  Kirk  tells  about  the  six-pound  trout  and  the 
old  fisherman?" 

"Seems  not,"  said  Emerson,  politely.  "I'd 
like  to." 

"But  you  won't,"  said  Vuyning.  "I've  heard  it 
scores  of  times.  That's  why  I  won't  tell  you.  I  was 
just  thinking  how  much  better  this  is  than  a  club. 
Now,  shall  we  go  to  my  tailor?" 

"Boys,  and  elderly  gents,"  said  Vuyning,  five  days 
later  at  his  club,  standing  up  against  the  window 
where  his  coterie  was  gathered,  and  keeping  out  the 
breeze,  "a  friend  of  mine  from  the  West  will  dine  at 
our  table  this  evening." 

"Will  he  ask  if  we  have  heard  the  latest  from 
Denver?"  said  a  member,  squirming  in  his  chair. 

"Will  he  mention  the  new  twenty-three-story  Ma 
sonic  Temple,  in  Quincy,  111.?"  inquired  another, 
dropping  his  nose-glasses. 

"Will  he  spring  one  of  those  Western  Mississippi 
River  catfish  stories,  in  which  they  use  yearling  calves 
for  bait?"  demanded  Kirk,  fiercely. 

"Be  comforted,"  said  Vuyning.  "Ke  has  none  of 
the  little  vices.  He  is  a  burglar  and  safe-blower, 
and  a  pal  of  mine." 

"Oh,  Mary  Ann !"  said  they.  "Must  }'ou  always 
adorn  every  statement  with  your  alleged  humor?" 


226  The  Voice  of  the  City 

It  came  to  pass  that  at  eight  in  the  evening  a  calm, 
smooth,  brilliant,  affable  man  sat  at  Vujning's  right 
hand  during  dinner.  And  when  the  ones  who  pass 
their  lives  in  city  streets  spoke  of  skyscrapers  or  of 
the  little  Czar  on  his  far,  frozen  throne,  or  of  insig 
nificant  fish  from  inconsequential  streams,  this  big, 
deep-chested  man,  faultlessly  clothed,  and  eyed  like 
an  Emperor,  disposed  of  their  Lilliputian  chatter 
with  a  wink  of  his  eyelash. 

And  then  he  painted  for  them  with  hard,  broad 
strokes  a  marvellous  lingual  panorama  of  the  West. 
He  stacked  snow-topped  mountains  on  the  table, 
freezing  the  hot  dishes  of  the  waiting  diners.  With 
a  wave  of  his  hand  he  swept  the  clubhouse  into  a 
pine-crowned  gorge,  turning  the  waiters  into  a  grim 
posse,  and  each  listener  into  a  blood-stained  fugitive, 
climbing  with  torn  fingers  upon  the  ensanguined 
rocks.  lie  touched  the  table  and  spake,  and  the  five 
panted  as  they  gazed  on  barren  lava  beds,  and  each 
man  took  his  tongue  between  his  teeth  and  felt  his 
mouth  bake  at  the  tale  of  a  land  empty  of  water  and 
food.  As  simply  as  Homer  sang,  while  he  dug  a  tine 
of  his  fork  leisurely  into  the  tablecloth,  he  opened  a 
new  world  to  their  view,  as  does  one  who  tells  a  child 
of  the  Looking-Glass  Country. 

As  one  of  his  listeners  might  have  spoken  of  tea 
too  strong  at  a  Madison  Square  "afternoon,"  so  he 
depicted  the  ravages  of  "redeye"  in  a  border  town 


Each  According  to  His  Ability      227 

when  the  caballeros  of  the  lariat  and  "forty-five" 
reduced  ennui  to  a  minimum. 

And  then,  with  a  sweep  of  his  white,  unringcd 
hands,  he  dismissed  Melpomene,  and  forthwith  Diana 
and  Amaryllis  footed  it  before  the  mind's  eyes  of  the 
clubmen. 

The  savannas  of  the  continent  spread  before  them. 
The  wind,  humming  through  a  hundred  leagues  of 
sage  brush  and  mesquite,  closed  their  ears  to  the  city's 
staccato  noises.  He  told  them  of  camps,  of  ranches 
marooned  in  a  sea  of  fragrant  prairie  blossoms,  of 
gallops  in  the  stilly  night  that  Apollo  would  have 
forsaken  his  daytime  steeds  to  enjoy;  he  read  them 
the  great,  rough  epic  of  the  cattle  and  the  hills  that 
had  not  been  spoiled  by  the  hand  of  man,  the  mason. 
His  words  were  a  telescope  to  the  city  men,  whose 
eyes  had  looked  upon  Youngstown,  O.,  and  whose 
tongues  had  called  it  "West." 

In  fact,  Emerson  had  them  "going." 

The  next  morning  at  ten  he  met  Vuyning,  by  ap 
pointment,  at  a  Forty-second  Street  cafe. 

Emerson  was  to  leave  for  the  West  that  day.  He 
wore  a  suit  of  dark  cheviot  that  looked  to  have  been 
draped  upon  him  by  an  ancient  Grecian  tailor  who 
was  a  few  thousand  years  ahead  of  the  styles. 

"Mr.  Vuyning,"  said  he,  with  the  clear,  ingenuous 
smile  of  the  successful  "crook,"  "it's  up  to  me  to  go 


228  The  Voice  of  the  City 

the  limit  for  you  any  time  I  can  do  so.  You're  the 
real  thing;  and  if  I  can  ever  return  the  favor,  you 
bet  your  life  I'll  do  it." 

"What  was  that  cow-puncher's  name?"  asked 
Vuyning,  "who  used  to  catch  a  mustang  by  the  nose 
and  mane,  and  throw  him  till  he  put  the  bridle  on?" 

"Bates,"  said  Emerson. 

"Thanks,"  said  Vuyning.  "I  thought  it  was 
Yates.  Oh,  about  that  toggery  business  —  I'd  for 
gotten  that." 

"I've  been  looking  for  some  guy  to  put  me  on  the 
right  track  for  years,"  said  Emerson.  "You're  the 
goods,  duty  free,  and  half-way  to  the  warehouse  in  a 
red  wagon." 

"Bacon,  toasted  on  a  green  willow  switch  over  red 
coals,  ought  to  put  broiled  lobsters  out  of  business," 
said  Vuyning.  "And  you  say  a  horse  at  the  end  of 
a  thirty-foot  rope  can't  pull  a  ten-inch  stake  out  of 
wet  prairie?  Well,  good-bye,  old  man,  if  you  must 
be  off." 

At  one  o'clock  Vuyning  had  luncheon  with  Miss 
Allison  by  previous  arrangement. 

For  thirty  minutes  he  babbled  to  her,  unaccount 
ably,  of  ranches,  horses,  canons,  cyclones,  round-ups, 
Rocky  Mountains  and  beans  and  bacon.  She  looked 
at  him  with  wondering  and  half-terrified  eyes. 

"I  was  going  to  propose  again  to-day,"  said  Vuy 
ning,  cheerily,  "but  I  won't.  I've  worried  you  often 


Each  According  to  His  Ability      229 

enough.  You  know  dad  has  a  ranch  in  Colorado. 
What's  the  good  of  staying  here?  Jumping  jon 
quils  !  but  it's  great  out  there.  I'm  going  to  start 
next  Tuesday." 

"No,  you  won't,"  said  Miss  Allison. 

"What?"  said  Vuyning. 

"Not  alone,"  said  Miss  Allison,  dropping  a  tear 
upon  her  salad.  "What  do  you  think?" 

"Betty!"  exclaimed  Vuyning,  "what  do  you 
mean  ?" 

"I'll  go  too,"  said  Miss  Allison,  forcibly. 

Vuyning  filled  her  glass  with  Apollinaris. 

"Here's  to  Rowdy  the  Dude!"  he  gave  —  a  toast 
mysterious. 

"Don't  know  him,"  said  Miss  Allison;  "but  if  he's 
your  friend,  Jimmy  —  here  goes!" 


THE  MEMENTO 

MlSS  LYNNETTE  D'ARMANDE  turned  her 
back  on  Broadway.  This  was  but  tit  for  tat,  be 
cause  Broadway  had  often  done  the  same  thing  to 
Miss  D'Armande.  Still,  the  "tats"  scorned  to  have 
it,  for  the  ex-leading  lady  of  the  "Reaping  the 
Whirlwind"  company  had  everything  to  ask  of 
Broadway,  while  there  was  no  vice-versa. 

So  Miss  Lynnette  D'Armande  turned  the  back  of 
her  chair  to  her  window  that  overlooked  Broadway, 
and  sat  down  to  stitch  in  time  the  lisle-thread  heel 
of  a  black  silk  stocking.  The  tumult  and  glitter  of 
the  roaring  Broadway  beneath  her  window  had  no 
charm  for  her;  what  she  greatly  desired  was  the 
stifling  air  of  a  dressing-room  on  that  fairyland 
street  and  the  roar  of  an  audience  gathered  in  that 
capricious  quarter.  In  the  meantime,  those  stock 
ings  must  not  be  neglected.  Silk  does  wear  out  so, 
but  —  after  all,  isn't  it  just  the  only  goods  there  is? 

The  Hotel  Thalia  looks  on  Broadway  as  Marathon 
looks  on  the  sea.  It  stands  like  a  gloomy  cliff  above 
the  whirlpool  where  the  tides  of  two  great  thorough 
fares  clash.  Here  the  player-bands  gather  at  the  end 
of  their  wanderings,  to  loosen  the  buskin  and  dust  the 
sock.  Thick  in  the  streets  around  it  are  booking- 

230 


The  Memento  231 

offices,  theatres,  agents,  schools,  and  the  lobster- 
palaces  to  which  those  thorny  paths  lead. 

Wandering  through  the  eccentric  halls  of  the  dim 
and  fusty  Thalia,  you  seem  to  have  found  yourself 
in  some  great  ark  or  caravan  about  to  sail,  or  fly,  or 
roll  away  on  wheels.  About  the  house  lingers  a  sense 
of  unrest,  of  expectation,  of  transientness,  even  of 
anxiety  and  apprehension.  The  halls  are  a  laby 
rinth.  Without  a  guide,  you  wander  like  a  lost  soul 
in  a  Sam  Lloyd  puzzle. 

Turning  any  corner,  a  dressing-sack  or  a  cul-de-sac 
may  bring  you  up  short.  You  meet  alarming  tra 
gedians  stalking  in  bath-robes  in  search  of  rumored 
bathrooms.  From  hundreds  of  rooms  come  the  buzz 
of  talk,  scraps  of  new  and  old  songs,  and  the  ready 
laughter  of  the  convened  players. 

Summer  has  come;  their  companies  have  disbanded, 
and  they  take  their  rest  in  their  favorite  caravan 
sary,  while  they  besiege  the  managers  for  engage 
ments  for  the  coming  season. 

At  this  hour  of  the  afternoon  the  day's  work  of 
tramping  the  rounds  of  the  agents'  offices  is  o.er. 
Past  you,  as  you  ramble  distractedly  through  the 
mossy  halls,  flit  audible  visions  of  houris,  with  veiled, 
starry  eyes,  flying  tag-ends  of  things  and  a  swish  of 
silk,  bequeathing  to  the  dull  hallways  an  odor  of 
gaiety  and  a  memory  of  frangipanni.  Serious  young 
comedians,  with  versatile  Adam's  apples,  gather  in 


232  The  Voice  of  the  City 

doorways  and  talk  of  Booth.  Far-reaching  from 
somewhere  conies  the  smell  of  ham  and  red  cabbage, 
and  the  crash  of  dishes  on  the  American  plan. 

The  indeterminate  hum  of  life  in  the  Thalia  is 
enlivened  by  the  discreet  popping  —  at  reasonable 
and  salubrious  intervals  —  of  beer-bottle  corks. 
Thus  punctuated,  life  in  the  genial  hostel  scans 
easily  —  the  comma  being  the  favorite  mark,  semi 
colons  frowned  upon,  and  periods  barred. 

Miss  D'Armande's  room  was  a  small  one.  There 
was  room  for  her  rocker  between  the  dresser  and  the 
wash-stand  if  it  were  placed  longitudinally.  On  the 
dresser  were  its  usual  accoutrements,  plus  the  ex- 
leading  lady's  collected  souvenirs  of  road  engage 
ments  and  photographs  of  her  dearest  and  best  pro 
fessional  friends. 

At  one  of  these  photographs  she  looked  twice  or 
thrice  as  she  darned,  and  smiled  friendlily. 

"I'd  like  to  know  where  Lee  is  just  this  minute," 
she  said,  half-aloud. 

If  you  had  been  privileged  to  view  the  photograph 
thus  flattered,  you  would  have  thought  at  the  first 
glance  that  you  saw  the  picture  of  a  manj-petalled 
white  flower,  blown  through  the  air  by  a  storm.  But 
the  floral  kingdom  was  not  responsible  for  that  swirl 
of  petalous  whiteness. 

You  saw  the  filiiry,  brief  skirt  of  Miss  Rosalie  Ray 
as  she  made  a  complete  heels-over-head  turn  in  her 


The  Memento  233 

wistaria-entwined  swing,  far  out  from  the  stage, 
high  above  the  heads  of  the  audience.  You  saw  the 
camera's  inadequate  representation  of  the  graceful, ' 
strong  kick,  with  which  she,  at  this  exciting  moment, 
sent  flying,  high  and  far,  the  yellow  silk  garter  that 
each  evening  spun  from  her  agile  limb  and  descended 
upon  the  delighted  audience  below. 

You  saw,  too,  amid  the  black-clothed,  mainly  mas 
culine  patrons  of  select-vaudeville  a  hundred  hands 
raised  with  the  hope  of  staying  the  flight  of  the 
brilliant  aerial  token. 

Forty  weeks  of  the  best  circuits  this  act  had 
brought  Miss  Rosalie  Ray,  for  each  of  two  years. 
She  did  other  things  during  her  twelve  minutes  —  a 
song  and  dance,  imitations  of  two  or  three  actors  who 
are  but  imitations  of  themselves,  and  a  balancing 
feat  with  a  step-ladder  and  feather-duster ;  but  when 
the  blossom-decked  swing  was  let  down  from  the  flies, 
and  Miss  Rosalie  sprang  smiling  into  the  seat,  with 
the  golden  circlet  conspicuous  in  the  place  whence  it 
was  soon  to  slide  and  become  a  soaring  and  coveted 
guerdon  —  then  it  was  that  the  audience  rose  in  its 
seat  as  a  single  man  —  or  presumably  so  —  and  in 
dorsed  the  specialty  that  made  Miss  Ray's  name  a 
favorite  in  the  booking-offices. 

At  the  end  of  the  two  years  Miss  Ray  suddenly  an 
nounced  to  her  dear  friend,  Miss  D'Armande,  that 
she  was  going  to  spend  the  summer  at  an  antediluvian 


234  The  Voice  of  the  City 

village  on  the  north  shore  of  Long  Island,  and  that 
the  stage  would  see  her  no  more. 

Seventeen  minutes  after  Miss  Lynnette  D'Armande 
had  expressed  her  wish  to  know  the  whereabouts  of 
her  old  chum,  there  were  sharp  raps  at  her  door. 

Doubt  not  that  it  was  Rosalie  Raj.  At  the  shrill 
command  to  enter  she  did  so,  with  something  of  a 
tired  flutter,  and  dropped  a  heavy  hand-bag  on  the 
floor.  Upon  my  word,  it  was  Rosalie,  in  a  loose, 
travel-stained  automobileless  coat,  closely  tied  brown 
veil  with  yard-long,  flying  ends,  gray  walking  suit  and 
tan  oxfords  with  lavender  overgaiters. 

When  she  threw  off  her  veil  and  hat,  you  saw  a 
pretty  enough  face,  now  flushed  and  disturbed  by 
some  unusual  emotion,  and  restless,  large  eyes  with 
discontent  marring  their  brightness.  A  heavy  pile 
of  dull  auburn  hair,  hastily  put  up,  was  escaping  in 
crinkly,  waving  strands  and  curling,  small  locks  from 
the  confining  combs  and  pins. 

The  meeting  of  the  two  was  not  marked  by  the 
effusion  vocal,  gymnastical,  osculatory  and  catecheti 
cal  that  distinguishes  the  greetings  of  their  unpro 
fessional  sisters  in  society.  There  was  a  brief  clinch, 
two  simultaneous  labial  dabs  and  they  stood  on  the 
same  footing  of  the  old  days.  Very  much  like  the 
short  salutations  of  soldiers  or  of  travellers  in  for 
eign  wilds  are  the  welcomes  between  the  strollers  at 
the  corners  of  their  criss-cross  roads. 


The  Memento  235 

"I've  got  the  hall-room  two  flights  up  above  vours," 
said  Rosalie,  "but  I  came  straight  to  sec  you  before 
going  up.  I  didn't  know  you  were  here  till  they 
told  me." 

"I've  been  in  since  the  last  of  April,"  said  Lyn- 
nette.  "And  I'm  going  on  the  road  with  a  'Fatal 
Inheritance'  company.  We  open  next  week  in  Eliza 
beth.  I  thought  you'd  quit  the  stage,  Lee.  Tell  me 
about  yourself." 

Rosalie  settled  herself  with  a  skilful  wriggle  on 
the  top  of  Miss  D'Armande's  wardrobe  trunk,  and 
leaned  her  head  against  the  papered  wall.  From 
long  habit,  thus  can  peripatetic  leading  ladies 
and  their  sisters  make  themselves  as  comfort 
able  as  though  the  deepest  armchairs  embraced 
them. 

"I'm  going  to  tell  you,  Lynn,"  she  said,  with  a 
strangely  sardonic  and  yet  carelessly  resigned  look 
on  her  youthful  face.  "And  then  to-morrow  I'll 
strike  the  old  Broadway  trail  again,  and  wear  some 
more  paint  off  the  chairs  in  the  agents'  offices.  If 
anybody  had  told  me  any  time  in  the  last  three 
months  up  to  four  o'clock  this  afternoon  that  I'd 
ever  listen  to  that  'Leave-your-name-and-address'  rot 
of  the  booking  bunch  again,  I'd  have  given  'em  the 
real  Mrs.  Fiske  laugh.  Loan  me  a  handkerchief, 
Lynn.  Gee !  but  those  Long  Island  trains  are  fierce. 
I've  got  enough  soft-coal  cinders  on  my  face  to  go  on 


236  The  Voice  of  the  City 

and  play  Topsy  without  using  the  cork.  And,  speak 
ing  of  corks  —  got  anything  to  drink,  Lynn?" 

Miss  D'Armande  opened  a  door  of  the  wash-stand 
and  took  out  a  bottle. 

"There's  nearly  a  pint  of  Manhattan.  There's  a 
cluster  of  carnations  in  the  drinking  glass,  but 

"Oh,  pass  the  bottle.  Save  the  glass  for  com 
pany.  Thanks !  That  hits  the  spot.  The  same  to 
you.  My  first  drink  in  three  months ! 

"Yes,  Lynn,  I  quit  the  stage  at  the  end  of  last 
season.  I  quit  it  because  I  was  sick  of  the  life.  And 
especially  because  my  heart  and  soul  were  sick  of  men 
—  of  the  kind  of  men  we  stage  people  have  to  be  up 
against.  You  know  what  the  game  is  to  us  —  it's  a 
fight  against  'em  all  the  way  down  the  line  from  the 
manager  who  wants  us  to  try  his  new  motor-car  to  the 
bill-posters  who  want  to  call  us  by  our  front  names. 

"And  the  men  we  have  to  meet  after  the  show  are 
the  worst  of  all.  The  stage-door  kind,  and  the  man 
ager's  friends  who  take  us  to  supper  and  show  their 
diamonds  and  talk  about  seeing  'Dan'  and  'Dave'  and 
'Charlie'  for  us.  They're  beasts,  and  I  hate  'em. 

"I  tell  you,  Lynn,  it's  the  girls  like  us  on  the  stage 
that  ought  to  be  pitied.  It's  girls  from  good  homes 
that  are  honestly  ambitious  and  work  hard  to  rise  ID 
the  profession,  but  never  do  get  there.  You  hear  a 
lot  of  sympathy  sloshed  around  on  chorus  girls  and 
their  fifteen  dollars  a  week.  Piffle!  There  ain't  a 


The  Memento  237 

sorrow  in   the  chorus   that   a   lobster   cannot   heal. 

"If  there's  any  tears  to  shed,  let  'em  fall  for  the 
actress  that  gets  a  salary  of  from  thirty  to  forty-five 
dollars  a  week  for  taking  a  leading  part  in  a  bum 
show.  She  knows  she'll  never  do  any  better ;  but  she 
hangs  on  for  years,  hoping  for  the  'chance'  that  never 
comes. 

"And  the  fool  plays  we  have  to  work  in !  Having 
another  girl  roll  you  around  the  stage  by  the  hind 
legs  in  a  'Wheelbarrow  Chorus'  in  a  musical  comedy 
is  dignified  drama  compared  with  the  idiotic  things 
I've  had  to  do  in  the  thirty-centers. 

"But  what  I  hated  most  was  the  men  —  the  men 
leering  and  blathering  at  you  across  tables,  trying 
to  buy  you  with  Wiirzburger  or  Extra  Dry,  accord 
ing  to  their  estimate  of  your  price.  And  the  men  in 
the  audiences,  clapping,  yelling,  snarling,  crowding, 
writhing,  gloating  —  like  a  lot  of  wild  beasts,  with 
their  eyes  fixed  on  you,  ready  to  eat  you  up  if  you 
come  in  reach  of  their  claws.  Oh,  how  I  hate  'em ! 

"Well,  I'm  not  telling  you  much  about  myself,  am 
I,  Lynn? 

"I  had  two  hundred  dollars  saved  up,  and  I  cut 
the  stage  the  first  of  the  summer.  I  went  over  on 
Long  Island  and  found  the  sweetest  little  village  that 
ever  was,  called  Soundport,  right  on  the  water.  I 
was  going  to  spend  the  summer  there,  and  study  up 
on  elocution,  and  try  to  get  a  class  in  the  fall.  There 


238  The  Voice  of  the  City 

was  an  old  widow  lady  with  a  cottage  near  the  beach 
who  sometimes  rented  a  room  or  two  just  for  com 
pany,  and  she  took  me  in.  She  had  another  boarder, 
too  —  the  Reverend  Arthur  Lyle. 

"Yes,  he  was  the  head-liner.  You're  on,  Lynn. 
I'll  tell  you  all  of  it  in  a  minute.  It's  only  a  one- 
act  play. 

"The  first  time  he  walked  on,  Lynn,  I  felt  myself 
going;  the  first  lines  he  spoke,  he  had  me.  He  was 
different  from  the  men  in  audiences.  He  was  tall 
and  slim,  and  you  never  heard  him  come  in  the  room, 
but  you  felt  him.  He  had  a  face  like  a  picture  of  a 
knight  —  like  one  of  that  Round  Table  bunch  —  and 
a  voice  like  a  'cello  solo.  And  his  manners ! 

"Lynn,  if  you'd  take  John  Drew  in  his  best  draw 
ing-room  scene  and  compare  the  two,  you'd  have  John 
arrested  for  disturbing  the  peace. 

"I'll  spare  you  the  particulars ;  but  in  less  than  a 
month  Arthur  and  I  were  engaged.  He  preached  at 
a  little  one-night  stand  of  a  Methodist  church. 
There  was  to  be  a  parsonage  the  size  of  a  lunch- 
wagon,  a?nd  hens  and  honeysuckles  when  we  were  mar 
ried.  Arthur  used  to  preach  to  me  a  good  deal  about 
Heaven,  but  he  never  could  get  my  mind  quite  off 
those  honeysuckles  and  hens. 

"No ;  I  didn't  tell  him  I'd  been  on  the  stage.  I 
hated  the  business  and  all  that  went  with  it ;  I'd  cut 
it  out  forever,  and  I  didn't  see  any  use  of  stirring 


The  Memento  239 

things  up.  I  was  a  good  girl,  and  I  didn't  have  any 
thing  to  confess,  except  being  an  elocutionist,  and 
that  was  about  all  the  strain  my  conscience  would 
stand. 

"Oh,  I  tell  you,  Lynn,  I  was  happy.  I  sang  in 
the  choir  and  attended  the  sewing  society,  and  re 
cited  that  'Annie  Laurie'  thing  with  the  whistling 
stunt  in  it,  'in  a  manner  bordering  upon  the  profes 
sional,'  as  the  weekly  village  paper  reported  it.  And 
Arthur  and  I  went  rowing,  and  walking  in  the  woods, 
and  clamming,  and  that  poky  little  village  seemed  to 
me  the  best  place  in  the  world.  I'd  have  been  happy 

to  live  there  always,  too,  if 

•  "But  one  morning  old  Mrs.  Gurley,  the  widow 
lady,  got  gossipy  while  I  was  helping  her  string  beans 
on  the  back  porch,  and  began  to  gush  information, 
as  folks  who  rent  out  their  rooms  usually  do.  Mr. 
Lyle  was  her  idea  of  a  saint  on  earth  —  as  he  was 
mine,  too.  She  went  over  all  his  virtues  and  graces, 
and  wound  up  by  telling  me  that  Arthur  had  had  an 
extremely  romantic  love-affair,  not  long  before,  that 
had  ended  unhappily.  She  didn't  seem  to  be  on  to 
the  details,  but  she  knew  that  he  had  been  hit  pretty 
hard.  He  was  paler  and  thinner,  she  said,  and  he 
had  some  kind  of  a  remembrance  or  keepsake  of  the 
lady  in  a  little  rosewood  box  that  he  kept  locked  in 
his  desk  drawer  in  his  study. 

"'Several     times,'     says     she,     'I've     seen     him 


240  The  Voice  of  the  City 

gloomeria'  over  that  box  of  evenings,  and  he  always 
locks  it  up  right  away  if  anybody  comes  into  the 
room.' 

"Well,  you  can  imagine  how  long  it  was  before  I 
got  Arthur  by  the  wrist  and  led  him  down  stage  and 
hissed  in  his  ear. 

"That  same  afternoon  we  were  lazying  around  in 
a  boat  among  the  water-lilies  at  the  edge  of  the  bay. 

"  'Arthur,'  says  I,  'you  never  told  me  you'd  had 
another  love-affair.  But  Mrs.  Gurley  did,'  I  went 
on,  to  let  him  know  I  knew.  I  hate  to  hear  a  man  lie. 

"  'Before  you  came,'  says  he,  looking  me  frankly 
in  the  eye,  'there  was  a  previous  affection  —  a  strong 
one.  Since  you  know  of  it,  I  will  be  perfectly  candid 
with  you.' 

"  'I  am  waiting,'  says  I. 

"  'My  dear  Ida,'  says  Arthur  —  of  course  I  went 
by  my  real  name,  while  I  was  in  Soundport — 'this 
former  affection  was  a  spiritual  one,  in  fact.  Al 
though  the  lady  aroused  my  deepest  sentiments,  and 
was,  as  I  thought,  my  ideal  woman,  I  never  met  her, 
and  never  spoke  to  her.  It  was  an  ideal  love.  My 
love  for  you,  while  no  less  ideal,  is  different.  You 
wouldn't  let  that  come  between  us.' 

"'Was  she  pretty?'  I  asked. 

"  'She  was  very  beautiful,'  said  Arthur. 

"  'Did  you  see  her  often  ?'  I  asked. 

"  'Something  like  a  dozen  times,1  says  he. 


The  Memento  241 

"'Always  from  a  distance?'  says  I. 

"  'Always  from  quite  a  distance,'  says  he. 

"''And  you  loved  her?'  I  asked. 

"'She  seemed  my  ideal  of  beauty  and  grace  —  and 
soul,'  says  Arthur. 

"  'And  this  keepsake  that  you  keep  under  lock  and 
key,  and  moon  over  at  times,  is  that  a  remembrance 
from  her?' 

"'A  memento,'  says  Arthur,  'that  I  have  treas 
ured.' 

"'Did  she  send  it  to  you?' 

"  'It  came  to  me  from  her,'  says  he. 

'"In  a  roundabout  way?'  I  asked. 

"  'Somewhat  roundabout,'  says  he,  'and  yet  rather 
direct.' 

"  'Why  didn't  you  ever  meet  her?'  I  asked.  'Were 
your  positions  in  life  so  different?' 

"'She  was  far  above  me,'  says  Arthur.  'Now, 
Ida,'  he  goes  on,  'this  is  all  of  the  past.  You're  not 
going  to  be  jealous,  are  you?' 

"'Jealous!'  says  I.  'Why,  man,  what  are  you 
talking  about?  It  makes  me  think  ten  times  as  much 
of  you  as  I  did  before  I  knew  about  it.' 

"And  it  did,  Lynn  —  if  you  can  understand  it. 
That  ideal  love  was  a  new  one  on  me,  but  it  struck 
me  as  being  the  most  beautiful  and  glorious  thing  I'd 
ever  heard  of.  Think  of  a  man  loving  a  woman  he'd 
never  even  spoken  to,  and  being  faithful  just  to  what 


242  The  Voice  of  the  City 

his  mind  and  heart  pictured  her!  Oh,  it  sounded 
great  to  me.  The  men  I'd  always  known  come  at 
you  with  either  diamonds,  knock-out  drops  or  a  raise 
of  salary, —  and  their  ideals  !  —  well,  we'll  say  no 
more. 

"  Yes,  it  made  me  think  more  of  Arthur  than  I  did 
before.  I  couldn't  be  jealous  of  that  far-away  divin 
ity  that  he  used  to  worship,  for  I  was  going  to  have 
him  myself.  And  I  began  to  look  upon  him  as  a  saint 
on  earth,  just  as  old  lady  Gurley  did. 

"About  four  o'clock  this  afternoon  a  man  came  to 
the  house  for  Arthur  to  go  and  see  somebody  that  was 
sick  among  his  church  bunch.  Old  lady  Gurley  was 
taking  her  afternoon  snore  on  a  couch,  so  that  left 
me  pretty  much  alone. 

"In  passing  by  Arthur's  study  I  looked  in,  and 
saw  his  bunch  of  keys  hanging  in  the  drawer  of  his 
desk,  where  he'd  forgotten  'em.  Well,  I  guess  we're 
all  to  the  Mrs.  Bluebeard  now  and  then,  ain't  we, 
Lynn?  I  made  up  my  mind  I'd  have  a  look  at  that 
memento  he  kept  so  secret.  Not  that  I  cared  what 
it  was  —  it  was  just  curiosity. 

"While  I  was  opening  the  drawer  I  imagined  one 
or  two  things  it  might  be.  I  thought  it  might  be 
a  dried  rosebud  she'd  dropped  down  to  him  from 
a  balcony,  or  maybe  a  picture  of  her  he'd  cut. 
out  of  a  magazine,  she  being  so  high  up  in  the 
world. 


The  Memento  243 

"I  opened  the  drawer,  and  there  was  the  rosewood 
casket  about  the  size  of  a  gent's  collar  box.  I  found 
the  little  key  in  the  bunch  that  fitted  it,  and  unlocked 
it  and  raised  the  lid. 

"I  took  one  look  at  that  memento,  and  then  I  went 
to  my  room  and  packed  my  trunk.  I  threw  a  few 
things  into  my  grip,  gave  my  hair  a  flirt  or  two  with 
a  side-comb,  put  on  my  hat,  and  went  in  and  gave 
the  old  lady's  foot  a  kick.  I'd  tried  awfully  hard  to 
use  proper  and  correct  language  while  I  was  there 
for  Arthur's  sake,  and  I  had  the  habit  down  pat,  but 
it  left  me  then. 

"  'Stop  sawing  gourds,'  says  I,  'and  sit  up  and 
take  notice.  The  ghost's  about  to  walk.  I'm  going 
away  from  here,  and  I  owe  you  eight  dollars.  The 
expressman  will  call  for  my  trunk.' 

"I  handed  her  the  money. 

"'Dear  me,  Miss  Crosby!'  says  she.  'Is  any 
thing  wrong?  I  thought  you  were  pleased  here. 
Dear  me,  young  women  are  so  hard  to  understand, 
and  so  different  from  what  you  expect  'em 
to  be.' 

"'You're  damn  right,'  says  I.  'Some  of  'em  are. 
But  you  can't  say  that  about  men.  When  you  know 
one  man  you  know  'em  all!  That  settles  the  human- 
race  question.' 

"And  then  I  caught  the  four-thirty-eight,  soft- 
coal  unlimited ;  and  here  I  am." 


244  The  Voice  of  the  City 

"You  didn't  tell  me  what  was  in  the  box,  Lee," 
said  Miss  D'Armande,  anxiously. 

"One  of  those  yellow  silk  garters  that  I  used  to 
kick  off  my  leg  into  the  audience  during  that  old 
vaudeville  swing  act  of  mine.  Is  there  any  of  the 
cocktail  left,  Lynn?" 


THE  END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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SEP  04 1993 

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JAN  0  6  2005 


U.C.BERKELEY  LIBRARIES 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


